The Legacy of the Sea Wolf
by sphinx81
Summary: Fleeing England, a would-be heiress disguises herself as a boy to board the Dauntless. Quickly finding her motivations entangled with the enigmatic Commodore Norrington as he pursues Sparrow, she struggles to keep her true nature secret. Meanwhile, fighting for redemption, Norrington comes to depend more and more on his strange, new crew member . Post CotBP, AU, Norrington/OC.
1. Prologue

Bustling around the grand bedroom of the children's quarters, Elizabeth puts away various toys in the heavy wooden chest at the foot of the children's bed. Not bothering to ring for a servant, she also quickly reorganizes the books along the dark shelves lining the wall in the playroom. Proceeding back into the bedroom, she lights a few more candles. Closing the large wooden shutters, she nodded as the room warmed against the chill of the wintry December night. Picking up her book, she arranges herself onto the gold and white striped chaise lounge sitting next to the children's bed. It will be a long night, no doubt. It always is in keeping watch over sick children.

"Mama, tell me a story!" the little boy sniffs. Wiping his running nose with a kerchief, he glances at his mother through glassy eyes. Coughing a bit, he lies back in the soft blankets of the rather large bed. Dark brows knitted with concern, he coughs again. Seeing the way his already pink cheeks redden, Elizabeth put down her book. As he sits up, the shadows of movement reflect off the walls from the bright lanterns and candles lit throughout the bedroom. Quickly taking a seat on the bed, her silken robe rustles in the relative silence of the room. Feeling his forehead with her hand, she can't help but nod with a satisfied grin; he feels a bit cooler to the touch than before.

"You should sleep, you know, Bennet" she murmurs, "You'll make the fever go away faster-"

"I can't sleep," he snorts,"Especially with Georgie snoring so." Nodding to sleeping, blonde-haired girl splayed out on her stomach in the sheets next to him, he crossed his arms with reproach. Her pale skin prinkled pink with the shared fever, Georgie doesn't respond the criticism. She only mutters for a bit as Elizabeth mother draws up the blankets around her. "You would think for such a baby, she'd at least prove a bit quieter," he mutters with a roll of his eyes.

"Play nice, my dear" his mother warns, "She's only four-years old."

"And I am seven, but I don't snore like she does," he shrugs, "Besides, I'm still waiting for my story," he grouses.

"Keep acting like that and there shall be none, Bennet" his mother quietly says, though her dark eyes narrow with warning.

"Sorry," he mutters, though he grins a bit. Especially as she leans forward, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. His complaints are forgiven. "Now, may I get my story? Please?" he politely continues.

"Only if you promise to go to sleep afterwards."

"Is it a long story?"

"Yes," she replies. Silently climbing over him, she now sits in the center of the bed, in between the two children. Leaning back on the intricately carved headboard, she gathers Georgie into her arms. Still steadily sleeping, the child doesn't respond, save for curling her little fingers into her mother's nightgown. Resting the her daughters head in the crook of her shoulder, Elizabeth gestures for Bennet to come closer. He does, leaning on her shoulder as she throws a comforting arm about him.

"Is the story about someone you know?" he continues, nodding with interest.

"It happened before you were born and so long ago that cannot claim to know him completely. However, I know _of_ him-" Suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door in the playroom next door, she swiftly glances to the entranceway of the bedroom. A smile tugging at her lips, she's met by the sight of her husband.

"Lizzie," he yawns, tall form and messy dark hair outlined against the soft light of the candle stick he carries, "When are you coming to bed?"

"Not for a while, I fear," she replies. She can't help but grin as he gives her an exaggerated pout of supposed offense.

"Come now-"

"Perhaps you wish to stay for a story?" she beckons, laughing as he quickly strides over to them. Settling the candlestick on the table next to the doorway of the bedroom, he plants a kiss on Elizabeth's cheek before stretching out across the foot of the bed. Elbow resting near the footboard, head upon his hand, he settles into the soft blankets.

"And how are my little ones?" he murmurs.

"I'm fine, but mama says I'm still sick," the boy pouts, crossing his arms.

"Considering how red your cheeks are, I'd say you're still running quite the fever, lad," his father replies with a grin, eyes dark in the dancing light. "And my girl?"

"Georgiana is still ill, though she's slept through the night," Elizabeth replies, handing off the sleeping girl to her father. He takes her in his arms, settling her in next to him.

"It will be some days until she is fully recovered. Hopefully, they will both recover within a few days," he replies, absentmindedly stroking Georgie's curling, golden hair. "Now, what of this story?"

"It is about man she knows," Bennet shrugs.

"No, it is about a man, I know _of_," she quickly corrects him. "Only those closest to him may claim to know him best. I was never so privileged to know him, as we are divided by time and circumstance," she distantly continues. "So here I shall tell the tale of a great man."

"Some say he was too worthy for his own good. Some say he was a fool who thought and expected to too much of others. Some even call him a traitor to his station. But to those who knew his true heart, he was indeed the best of men. For any with eyes and some semblance of grace knew James Bennet Norrington as a man of honor, dignity, and most importantly, friendship. And thusly, here I shall tell the tale of a hero, in the Legacy of the Sea Wolf."


	2. The Board is Set

_Oh, I think we can afford to give him one day's headstart._

**May 1717**

"You're mad James," Gillette said as he finished off the rest of his brandy. Gesturing for more, he raised his glass in salute. Sitting across from the Commodore on the opposite side of the dark wooden desk in Norrington's richly decorated yet cozy study, he appeared completely sober. The only thing giving him away was that his gentle, rolling Belfast accent proved far more evident than usual.

"Quite so, Andrew," Norrington replied, refilling the Lieutenant's glass. "Reginald?" Norrington gestured to Groves with the bottle of brandy. He shrugged at Groves' refusal, the lieutenant already half-asleep in the other comfortable leather chair sitting in front of the desk. The day's rather unusual events had apparently taken their toll. "After all, there's never been a prisoner escape from the gallows," Norrington continued. "Then again, we could have blindly gone after Sparrow right then and there. With nary an idea of where to start, what ports he stops in, his usual routes or even who comprises his crew. I'm sure the mission to hunt him down would prove a vast success," he breezily retorted.

"Well," Gillette sighed, "I suppose you're right."

"Suppose?" Norrington raised an eyebrow, at which Gillette simply smirked.

"Indeed," Groves finally yawned, "At least we've a plan now. The prisoners back at the fort seemed quite ready to turn on Sparrow as soon the promise of indentured servitude in the colonies was offered. I suppose that beats the noose for them."

"And so we kill two birds with one stone," Gillette replied.

"To the birds then," Groves chanted as he drunkenly raised his glass, "And the stones to kill them."

"To birds," Gillette repeated.

"Forget the birds," Norrington chuckled, "To apprehending renegade pirates!" he declared.

"May we capture him fast, for I do not wish to be parted from my wife for long, eh?" Groves suggestively slurred, waggling an eyebrow.

"May Sparrow dance his final jig upon the noose!" Gillette snorted, "All for the sake of Groves' dear Charlotte, of course. And may she soon come with child upon her husband's return!" he chuckled.

"Aye," Groves toasted, "And most especially, to the Sea Wolf!"

"The Sea Wolf?" Norrington repeated with an arched, if highly incredulous brow.

"Aye. For that, according to Charlotte, is what they call you back in town now. And you know my darling always has the newest and best gossip," he all but giggled, the brandy making it way to his head.

"I think I rather prefer the 'Scourge of Piracy,'" Gillette mused.

"Well, it looks as though you've been upgraded, James," Groves snorted, "For not only did you save Miss Swann, but you had a hand in killing Bloody Barbossa. Not to mention, the initial capture of Sparrow. So hence, 'The Sea Wolf.'"

"I see," Norrington steadily replied, eyes wide with surprise. "'The Sea Wolf' eh? Hmm…I think it sounds rather dashing, no?" Groves adamantly nodded as Gillette gave a sarcastic grin, shaking his head in disagreement. "Well," Norrington continued, "To The Sea Wolf then. I serve the people after all, so let them call me what they like." They toasted the thought, the conversation quickly turning to other matters. Within some time, the two men took leave of their commander. After all, it was off to an early bed to contend with their departure upon the _Dauntless_ at dawn, in hot pursuit of Sparrow.

Left alone in the front hallway after they'd taken their leave, the silence of his empty home suddenly bore down on Norrington like never before.

_And 'tis times like these I wish a companion with which to share my house,_ he mused as he climbed the stairs. Running his fingers along the dark wood of the banister, he sighed._ Well, one woman actually…but what is done is done._ Entering his quarters, he rung the servants' bell. Soon his valet, the ever attentive Thompson, took away his naval uniform. It would go into the trunk that had been packed for the voyage. No doubt it would be a quick pursuit. After all no pirate had ever proven able to outrun Commodore James Bennet Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy in the Caribbean. Or rather The Sea Wolf, now.

After Norrington fell into bed, he reached over to his nightstand to put out the candles. Hand brushing something hard and metallic, he picked it up, examining it in the dim light of the moon pouring through the window. It was a gold locket, though quite a ways larger. A miniature portrait of sorts. With a snort, he popped it open. Gaze dancing along the fine features of the girl demurely staring back him from inside it, he couldn't bite back a sigh. A slight grin upon her pink lips, light brown hair curled in perfect ringlets, painted brown eyes alight as though with some private joke, she taunted him even from here. _Not so different from your likeness are you, Lizzie? _he snorted. The portrait remained silent of course, though he swore her smirk widen.

"Enough!" he declared out loud. Placing the miniature in the drawer of the nightstand, he slammed it shut, though not before letting out an irritated sigh. Blowing out the last candle, he rolled over in an attempt to get some sleep.

_What is done is done, _he repeated to himself, _The fight is over, you've given in and there's no turning back_. _Sea Wolf or not._

Funny how he'd almost convinced himself such was true.

* * *

Three bells rung out across the deck, signaling the start of new day. However, the sun had yet to breech the horizon, the sky fading to light blue as the stars disappeared from sight. The old sailor leaned against the rails along the starboard, grinning to himself at the familiar sound. He may be a pirate, but Gibbs still had some of the navy left in him. He'd convinced Jack to fix the stolen bell to the bow some time ago. "Least we've the right to know what time of day it be," he declared. Jack only rolled his eyes in reply, though he gave his permission with a lazy wave of his hand before stumbling away.

"Perhaps we may keep sailin' on, Jack?" Gibbs called out to the quickly disappearing darkness, thoughts returning to the present.

"_Captain_ Jack," the pirate retorted behind him before taking a long swig of rum. "Besides, matey, this pack a dogs needs a bit of a lie-in. Been sailin' hard to outrun Jaime."

"Jaime?"

"The right honorable Commodore James Bennet Norrington, 'course," Jack smirked before leaning haphazardly against the rigging. Giving Gibbs a hard once over, he shrugged before taking another long swig of rum. "Rest up, Gibbs. Marty'll be takin' over the watch in a bit."

"Still should have someone at the helm. Gotta keep goin-"

"Eh, we'll be right as rain," Jack replied, "Away with you," he waved. Gibbs shrugged, touching his brow in goodbye before ambling below decks.

"He's right, Jack," a smoky voice called from the shadows, curling around his ears like the slow, hazy morning mist. Jack grinned as the figure sidled up beside him, quickly relieving him of the bottle of rum.

"My dear Maria-"

"_Anamaria_."

"My angel of the sea-"

"Stop with that foolishness, Jack," she snorted, though a grin tugged at her lips. Taking a swig of the rum, her expression suddenly darkened. "We be finding ourselves sittin' ducks if we don't move."

"And what's your rush, my murderous little mermaid?" Jack rasped, eyebrow raised as she leaned against the railing opposite him. She was dressed in her usual mishmash of pirate attire, her clothes haphazardly fitted as though swiped from various sources. And while she was currently unarmed, hair loose, down and devoid of her usual dark bandana, her stance was poised. Full of a sort of dangerous grace, she was wound tight, ready to spring to action at a second's notice. Dodgy as any of his crew.

"You still be owing me a ship," she flatly said, though her eyes glittered with dangerous intent.

"And you'll be getting it, love," he casually retorted, eyes wide with caution.

"When?"

"Soon."

"_When_, Jack?"

"Capta-"

"When, _Captain_ Sparrow?" She was closer now, almost nose-to-nose with him. Arms crossed and head cocked to the side, her mouth curled into a rather attractive though feral smirk.

Setting down the rum on a barrel, he swayed his hand over his heart. Sweeping off his hat, he gave her a low bow before his kohl-rimmed eyes meet hers again. "I swear on my very heart-"

"As black as it be," she spat.

"Come now, it's still got some life in it," he chuckled, only to swiftly fall silent as her expression hardened. "That I," he speedily continued his oath, "Captain Jack Sparrow, will fetch my dear Anamaria the finest ship the Caribbean has ever seen."

"Thought the _Pearl_ be the finest ship of these seas?" she snapped with an arched brow.

"Well then…the, ehrm, _second_ finest ship of Caribbean," Jack continued, eyes darting back and forth as though searching for a quick path of escape.

"Seems I had one before you went and had it blown right up," she hissed. "The _Interceptor_ it be called?"

"Aye, it was," Jack smiled though he quickly backed up to the rigging. Gaze still darting between her and the ropes, he suddenly saw she now gripped a dagger in her hand. Wherever she'd pulled that from. No matter, as it wasn't pointed at his throat. Yet.

"Now you know I never forget no promises," she hissed, finger pointing into his chest, narrowed dark eyes staring up at him with unbending malice.

"Mind's like a steel trap, yours is, love," he uncomfortably chuckled.

"So," she snorted, "I be expecting a ship when we get to wherever we go. Not a boat, a _ship_. You catchin' my drift, Captain?"

"Of course, my little hellion of the deep," he shrugged. Gold-laced smile wide and open, he threw his hands up in surrender. Gaze travelling to her weapon still clutched in her hand to her side, his smile widened.

"Good," she swiftly declared, tucking away her dagger. "Now that we on the level, I'm headin' back to the helm," she nodded. "Better to keep moving. That blooy Commodore got a hard look 'bout him, from what I remember. We need to keep in the wind."

"Whatever you say, Anamaria," he bowed again.

"Captain Sparrow," she saluted, spinning on her heel and casually taking up her position behind the wheel.

"Women," Jack muttered, though a grin flashed across his tanned face. Ambling down to his quarters, he fell into bed. And within minutes, he was asleep, bottle of rum clutched to his side, hat over his face and boots still upon his feet.

* * *

As he stood in front of the house, the drizzle of light rain starting to soak through his clothes, he'd contemplated more than once simply spinning on his heel and leaving. That was until the gates swung open and the early morning servants departed. No doubt to run errands in Port Royal's markets, the sped past him without glancing up. Easily ducking into the gate unnoticed, he slowly made his way up the carriage drive. Pausing before briskly knocking on the great oak doors on the wide, white veranda, he waited for an answer.

"Yes sir?" the housekeeper said upon opening the door. The old woman gave him a once over, eyes flashing momentarily at his rather simple clothes. Dressed in a simply cut but expensive dark silk dress, white hair curled underneath her lace cap, she stiffened as recognition dawned on her. _"You!" _she hissed under her breath.

"Would you please inform the Commodore that Mr. Turner is here to see him?" Will began, dark eyes flashing at her increasingly unyielding demeanor, "I have-"

"I am afraid the master of the house is preparing for his early morning departure," she cut him off.

"It's simply that-"

"He is not expecting visitors," she retorted, all but snapping at him.

"I have a package for him," he nodded down at the small, dark wooden box balanced in his hands.

"I may deliver it to him," she sniffed, reaching out to take it until he deftly backed away, snatching it from her grasp.

"Madame-"

"Mr. Turner!" she snapped, crossing her arms, eyes narrowing, "As I have said before, the Commodore is not expecting any visitors. He is preparing to set out from the port this morning. More specifically, in pursuit of the rather notorious pirate, Jack Sparrow-"

"_Captain_," he muttered under his breath. However, his mouth snapped shut at her irate expression.

"I'm sure you have heard of this pirate?" she essentially growled, arching an eyebrow as he slowly nodded. "Now, I may deliver your package. But beyond that, _sir_," she swallowed in disgust, "I offer you no more."

"Odd," he blithely replied, clutching to box to himself and biting his lip in increasing annoyance, "I would have thought one so distinguished as the Commodore would have hired better trained staff."

"Mr. Turner!" she all but yelled, completely taken aback.

"Mrs…whoever you are!" he mocked with a dismissive wave of his hand, "There is no need to lose your composure," he suddenly smiled, though his dark eyes remained hard. "I simply wish to deliver a package to Commodore Norrington. Now if you'll excuse me-" He feinted left only to go right and quickly step around her into the front hallway. "Kindly inform the Commodore I await his audience," he serenely said, passing her his card.

"I shall do no such thing!" she snarled, crossing her arms again.

"Then I shall wait here until someone else does," he smirked, moving to stand next to a chair in the wide entranceway.

"I'll have you thrown out, you…you _common criminal!_" she screeched.

"There is no need for that, Mrs. Huntington," a calm voice floated down from the stairway, causing both to snap their heads upwards. "Mr. Turner," the Commodore continued, coming down the stairs. Dressed in full naval regalia, including his overcoat, his hat tucked under one arm and white gloves in hand, he was the very picture of the power and dignity that was His Majesty's Royal Navy. "I shall meet in you the front parlor, straightway. Mrs. Huntington? You may go, thank you." Looking as though she was about to yell something else, she glared at Will before silently spinning on her heel and disappearing through the back of house. "I'm afraid my time is limited, Mr. Turner," Norrington continued, "So please, make this brief."

"Of course," Will swallowed, "And please, sir, you may call me 'Will' considering-"

"That we are virtual strangers? No, I would not think of so casual an address," Norrington icily retorted, gesturing towards the parlor. "Follow me please, Mr. Turner." The younger man was taken aback, though he said nothing, mouth set into a hard line as he did as instructed.

"So?" Norrington suddenly said, quickly coming to a stop. Standing in front of the card table near the center of the sparsely decorated parlor, he did not offer Will a seat.

"I thought that you would like to have to have the accompanying dagger to the rapier presented to you upon your promotion some weeks back," Will quietly replied, sliding open the top of the box. Lying in the black velvet lining it was an exquisite silver dagger. The blade thin and long, the hilt of the weapon was exactly as the hilt of Norrington's new sword, deep blue with winding gold filigree.

"As you may see," Will continued, nervously shoving back loose stands of his dark hair behind his ears, "It is balanced in the same fashion as your sword." Removing the blade from the box, he balanced the point between the hilt and blade on one finger. Quickly flipping it into the air and deftly catching it, he easily balanced it on his other hand, illustrating the further elegance of the superb weapon. "They belong together," he nodded at the sword tucked into Norrington's belt. "I worked through the night to complete it, assuming you may require it for your…trip."

Norrington remained silent, fixing the younger man with an inscrutable stare. Will held his gaze until the Commodore relaxed ever so slightly, though his expression remained steeled. Suddenly taking the blade from the blacksmith's hands, he silently examined the weapon. After a while, he carefully placed it back in the box sitting on the table between them.

"Thank you, Mr. Turner," he tightly said after some time. "Like the sword, it is an excellent weapon. You prove…an able tradesmen. Is there anything else?"

"Erhm…Just-" _Blast it!_ he thought to himself. "Well, thank you…sir."

"For?" Norrington raised an eyebrow, expression still stony.

"Miss Eliz-"

"No need to thank me, Mr. Turner," Norrington tersely replied, cutting him off, "It was the honorable action to take, after all."

"Of course. I would expect no less," Will replied quietly with a nod.

"No one does, so it would seem," Norrington muttered. "I apologize Mr. Turner," he continued more loudly, gesturing towards to door, "But I must take my leave of you. It's imperative I make my way to the docks," Will glanced at him in confusion until the realization suddenly hit him. Swallowing hard, he scrambled towards the door, Norrington in pursuit. "I am afraid Mrs. Huntington is indisposed at the moment," he gestured towards the back of the house as he let Will out.

"I will take the utmost care with her," Will blurted out. Norrington stiffened, the color draining from his face. "I swear it," he continued, "Sir-"

"I wish you both happiness," Norrington snapped. "Good day," he resolutely finished. With that, he closed the door, giving a silent prayer of thanks that the ordeal was finally over. Now, he'd nothing but the sea to comfort him for the next few days, his original mistress beckoning him back to her grasp like the finest of wines seducing the local drunk.

* * *

The mirror was dirty, cracks starting to form around the edges. With but few candles lit in the tiny, wood-paneled room, it looked even more dilapidated. Then again, it wasn't as though she'd find herself using it for much longer. Running her hands through her boyishly short, dark, slightly curly locks, she couldn't help but bite her lip in frustration. While it'd only been a week since she'd arrived in Port Royal, the bright, harsh Caribbean sun was already beginning turning streaks of her hair a dirty brown. She worried for its effects on her pale, already freckled skin. But such thoughts were trivial. After all, she wasn't back at home in drawing room of Beldrake Castle. Finishing up a bit of embroidery, reading a book or attempting to win a round chess or cards proved far from her mind.

_Beldrake_. The Rutland ancestral home, she'd loved the great estate in Redmile, England. They'd said the original parts of the castle were built back in the time of the Norman Conqueror, other parts added during old Queen Bess' reign. Overall, it may have been a somewhat crumbling structure, ripe for refurbishment. Yet she loved the drafty, moldering thing. Not to mention the extensive grounds. Spending her days traipsing around the estate for hours on end gave her a sense of calm that she hadn't found since she was forced to leave.

It had only been her home for a few years since her father had died. Her mother passed away at her birth as she brought her into the world. Yet she'd grown to love it as though she'd lived there her entire life. Lord Thomas Rutland, the Marquess of Granby, and his wife, Lady Frances, had taken her in. Lord Rutland, her father's cousin via their shared grandfather, had proven ever so kind to her. As both Lord and Lady Rutland were without legitimate children, they spoiled her fiercely, glad of her young company. Even, George, her uncle's only child and illegitimate son, had nothing but benevolent words for her. Tinged with his usual quiet affection and cheekiness, she looked forward to his visits. In fact, she wished them more frequent. Unfortunately, such was impossible due to his newly bought commission as a dragoon in freshly formed King's Own Regiment of Horse, in honor of the new King George.

A shame it all had all gone to pot and she was on the run now. Lord Rutland was dead in the War of Succession in Flanders. His wife, Lady Rutland, was on the continent with his solicitor, forced bring back his body and secure the older version of the will he took with him. All as to not to be turned out of the great estate by the supposed new will. Frankly, most thought the new one to be a forgery. But Lady Rutland was forced to find proof of it. And with George stationed somewhere in India, there was no way anyone could get to him to aid in setting things right.

That bastard, cousin Ambrose. A distant cousin to Lord Rutland via his grandmother's questionable line, no one had really heard of him until Lord Rutland's death. Yet he'd shown up to Beldrake with Lord Rutland's death announcement in hand. Along with that new will that left everything to him. As the supposedly closest male relative (for George, Lord Rutland's son from a liaison previous to his marriage, could not inherit the estate itself due to his illegitimacy), he stood to inherit the entire estate.

However, he didn't know of Lord Rutland's first cousin on his father's side. A Major General Edward Vernon, stationed in with the army in Boston in the colonies, he proved the true closest male heir. But Edward hadn't answered Lord Rutland's letters to him in almost a year. Was he dead? No one knew. But even with the new will, he was still closest male relative. More likely also to preserve the excess earnings of the estate. outside of its general upkeep and a healthy pension to Lady Rutland, those earning would go to George, along with a rather handsome initial lump sum.

As for her, well, she stood to inherit a lump sum of some 12,000 guineas. Including her father's saved pension from the navy, the total sum would be 14,000 guineas. At least according to the old will. Additionally, if somehow both Edward Vernon and Ambrose Vernon were to die, any firstborn future son of hers would inherit the estate. And if there were to be no sons, then her first born grandson would inherit and so on.

But that was all in the past now. Turned out of Beldrake with a small allowance and what she'd be able to scrape together from the last of Lord Rutland's faithful servants, she escaped to Port Royal via London. The entire journey to Port Royal took two and a half months so far. It'd hardened her, turning her into a creature of survival. A sort of opportunistic ragamuffin she'd never dreamed off becoming in her halcyon days back at Beldrake. Such a life of luxury and ease at the old castle proved but a hazy memory now. 'Twas all replaced by the capriciousness and pitiless prospects the outside world has to offer. No wonder her relations shielded her from such things.

Her only hope was Dr. Arthur McCarnelly of London.

The doctor had served with her father for many years when both were in the navy. For while her father had the genteel blood of the landed gentry back in England (he was the son of a duke, after all), he wasn't a firstborn son. So into the navy he went, serving along with doctor. Both had gained winnings enough from capturing Spanish and French frigates to comfortably retire. They'd remained friends afterwards, despite the doctor's lack of social standing. And last she'd heard after her father's death, the good doctor lived in London. So she went to London, finding out that he was on his way to Port Royal aboard _HMS Triumph _in order to return to his commission upon the _HMS Dauntless_.

From London, she booked passage on a small sloop also on its way to Caribbean island. Though by herself, she remained relatively unharmed, the captain's wife keeping a hard eye on her. While the woman proved rather unimaginative and dour, she did guarantee her a safe passage. So she made it to Port Royal, only to quickly realize this seedy place teemed with all sorts of characters. Dangerous ones. On top of that, the _Triumph _was delayed. Forced to find a room somewhere until it arrived, despite her dwindling coinage, she'd checked into the inn under the auspices of a lady's maid awaiting her mistress. The innkeep gave her nary a glance, save when she's smacked the crowns on the desk. Muttered something about the last door on the left, and continued balancing his ledger. As a result, she'd been here four days. Yesterday she found out the _Triumph _was on her way, scheduled to dock by mid-morning.

Now, the doctor was the only one she could trust. Hopefully out of deference to her father, he would help lead her to this Major General Edward Vernon. The laws required Edward Vernon would have to contest the will and take ownership of the property within five years of Lord Rutland's death. Thankfully, even if the Doctor proved unwilling to help, she would still be on her way to the colonies. The stop in Port Royal was barely out of the way.

So here she stood in front of the mirror. One last inventory before tomorrow. For now she looked as though a boy; narrow chest wrapped with muslin, layers of seamen's clothes, loose and hanging, face smudged with dirt, she fit the part to a tee. Especially when she tied back her freshly cut short hair with a rough bit of string. She didn't want it all to go this far. But it was the only way. Traveling the high seas required it, for a woman on a boat would otherwise prove disastrous. This way, with no need of women's clothing, at least she would be able sell her clothes for a pretty penny. And it would be far more easy for her to become accustomed to her new pseudonym; Christian Granner.

It had a nice ring to it.

With a heavy sigh, she blew out the candles. She had rest for tomorrow, for she it was imperative she travel to the docks to track down the ever elusive Doctor Arthur McCarnelly.

* * *

True, he'd lived his life expecting death around every corner. It proved a sort of occupational hazard, after all. However, he'd never expected it to hurt _this _much. A searing pain in his chest after the pistol went off, bitter cold, then smothering darkness. Inexplicably, he'd awoken in this rickety longboat. Sailing nowhere in the twilight along a vast black ocean shrouded in an ungodly mist, he was surrounded by hundreds of others in the same sort of boats. The other people proved intact for the most part. Though some, not so much. Quite a few contained such grievous bodily injury, it made his stomach turn. Made the hole in his chest a mere scratch in comparison.

But now, after traveling for some days, months, years, or even centuries for all he knew, he was use to such sights. How long he'd traveled on this endless River Styx, he'd no clue. Time, at least when measured in human elements, apparently stopped here.

_Leave it be to Providence to not even provide a mate with a paddle! _he snapped to himself. No reason to talk aloud in this limbo; few people in this company of endless boats responded to him. They were apparently far too wrapped up in their own grief to notice anything. Only the children among them seemed able to see him, the perceptive little brats.

He'd tried paddling forward with his hands at first, as he'd quickly found out paddling backwards from wherever he came proved impossible. But the more the paddled, the less he moved forward. _So much for that plan._ Then he tried to leap overboard. Morbid curiosity and all that. But the invisible force linking him to the boat prevented him even that. He then assumed he was in hell. But that thought quickly dissipated as soon as it entered his mind. The sense of waiting for _something_ to take him out of this netherworld immediately hit him. So there went the whole Hell theory.

_As though Charon, the bloody ferryman, be fallin' down on the job!_ he spat. _So much for deference to your masters, you bloody git, whoever ye be!_ After a while, he just waited, letting his boat drift along within this eerie long parade.

Suddenly it dawned on him; he helped take her freedom not so long ago, eh? So what was to stop him from promising to return it? It was what she desired the most, much like he coveted escape from this endless purgatory.

"Ya be a cunning one, Barbossa!" her shadowy voice echoed around him. The air suddenly thick with inexplicable dampness, he quickly noticed a crab now sitting on the seat in front of him. Its black eyes stared at him unblinkingly, claws snapping with promised malice. "But why'd I'd bother with de likes of you?" she cackled.

"'Cause ye be wanting ye freedom," he whispered into the air with a malicious grin. "And I be the one to give it to ya."

"Liar!"

"Devil woman!"

"Oh, how ya pirate heart love and hate me so," she sighed.

If Barbossa were less fearless, he'd have cried out in horrified dismay at the whispering black smoke in front of him. It steadily thickened, swiftly materializing into the shape of the wildly beautiful goodness. Appearing in the human form she was currently bound to, she gave him a feral smile. Indigo blue dyed teeth gleaming in the faint twilight, unnaturally black eyes flitted over him in mild appraisal. Two more crabs appeared, clacking at her feet as she rearranged her strange assembly of dressings. Demurely crossing her legs beneath the dress, she perched herself upon the seat opposite him, a queen upon a lost throne.

"I'd a never thought ya be the first of the pirate Lords killed," she smirked, giving him a once over.

"Sparr-"

"I know of it," she snapped with a dismissive wave of her hand, "For dear Jack be up to his old tricks again," she cackled. "But time's runnin' low for that one."

"Especially when I get me life back," Barbossa snarled only to stay his words as she reached out, hand caressing his face. Speechless, he looked away as she grinned. Hands once again demurely folded in her lap, she shook her head in disagreement.

"Nay, ya no claim to him, as his life ain't to be taken by you. No time for ya to do it," she retorted with an enigmatic smile. "So what be the price of me freedom, Hector?"

"My life for yours renewed, wench," the old pirate cackled. "I unbind ye. Ye shed this rather attractive form," he replied, giving her an appreciative once over as she preened, "And you're restored to ya previous majesty. For that daunting task, I ask only for me poor life. Surely, you have it in ye heart to grant such to the likes of me, a simple villain?"

"My heart died long ago, Barbossa!" she hissed, bristling. As the crabs at her feet clacked their claws ominously, skittering back and forth in a frenzied dance, the air about her suddenly fell heavy and sharp with rage. Abruptly tinged by an odd sense of melancholy, it swiftly shifted back to its wretched fury, only to slide yet again to a sort of detached suspicion. "And how ya be proposing on gettin' the other eight pieces?" she breathed. Leaning forward, her words tingled against his ear, "Ya ain't even got ya _own_ piece anymore."

"The one that carries it be true," Barbossa sniffed with annoyance. "So what be ye verdict? Your freedom for mine, Tia Dalma?"

As bright eyes bored into his, he was inexplicably struck with a sudden unease that dangled on the cold precipice of fear. He prayed, for maybe the first time in his life, that such dread remained hidden from her.

"It is a deal, me thieving one," she silkily replied, smile wide and dangerous. Before he could react, she leaned over, lips roughly claiming his...

...Gasping for air, he was wrenched to consciousness, every nerve in his body twisting and jerking in frenzied pain. Limbs spasming, the memories of his previous life flooded back to his brain within the blink of an eye. Then came that hideous pain again. Dear God, _the searing pain. _It utterly destroyed him. Eyes wide, mouth gurgling with a burst of his first breath in months, he lifted his hand into view. If he could, he'd scream at the sight of it. But the shock strangled him; his hand was a mess of rotting flesh, moldering skin attached to bone by bloody tendons and ligaments. Clawing at his face, he shuddered as he felt bone poking through muscle. He tried to speak. Nut his teeth only clacked together in absence of a tongue or lips. Reaching down, his hand brushed past rotting clothes and into his ribcage. Bony fingers grazing his delicate, beating heart, he recoiled in horror as her wicked laugh rung out about him

"Now, it be some time since ya died. So the body don't stay fresh," she slithered, standing over were he lay on the cot in her ramshackle cottage. "It just be takin' some of me best potions to mend ya whole again," she gestured around at the dirty jars littering the room, filled with various festering concoctions. "Forgive me, but me guest room ain't exactly the most hospitable. Meantime," she cackled, "Welcome home, Captain Barbossa."

* * *

**A/N: **Beldrake castle is based on the real life **Belvoir Castle**. It's a stately old home in the county of Leicestershire in England. Originally a Norman castle, it was acquired by the real 9th earl John Manners, who was created Duke of Rutland and Marquess of Granby by Queen Anne in 1703. I just borrowed the name and place. Google it for more info and pictures of the rather beautiful estate grounds.


	3. Port Royal

"Boy, do you know any sorts of letters and arithmetic?"

Christian didn't respond, looking past the babbling man and instead to the ships. Blinking her eyes against the bright morning sun, she easily sidestepped him, lost in her thoughts. _The HMS Triumph has to be here somewhere_, she mused. If not, she'd have to book passage to Boston by herself. Frankly, she barely had enough money to do so, even after selling her dresses and underclothes earlier that morning.

"I say, boy, have you any learning?" the exasperated man called out again. A look of confusion flashing across her face, she glanced behind herself to find a rather tall, if thin man addressing her. His light brown hair was cropped close and unpowedered, no wig in sight. _Highly unusual, _she grimaced. It proved particularly odd in comparison to his clothes, which looked to be the height of style. The breeches were bright yellow, the coat the color of a garish sunset. Combined with a deep crimson waistcoat and a white cravat, it formed an almost horrendous explosion of color. The only relief lay in the hint of his white shirt poking up from his waistcoat. And the white fur lining his black, tri-cornered hat.

The man wouldn't understand subtle if it ran him over in a carriage. Sad, considering he was of good looks, his round face rather boyish. However, his horribly gauche attire destroyed any vestiges of handsomeness.

"I'm addressing you, boy!" he snorted again, "Or are you a mute?" Startled, she drew herself up to her full height, quickly taking off her dirty cap and looking downwards in the sign of respect. "Well, at least you have some manners," he declared with a sort of snorted laugh, "But are you literate?" he demanded, voice sounding slightly less irritated as he took a step towards her. She fought with every breath to remain still and not back away, the wall of a warehouse thankfully behind her.

"Well now," he continued, walking around her as much as he could. Suddenly, she felt his calloused hand beneath her chin, forcing her head upwards. Licking her chapped lips, she glared up at him in what she hoped proved a masculine manner. In fact she'd almost convinced herself of her false sex. That was until the contents of this morning's meager breakfast threatened to come up at the feel of his skinny, clammy fingers resting against her cheek.

"Awfully pretty there, lad," he grumbled, his hazel eyes momentarily widening in surprise. "Were we in a more savage land, you would have been sold to a pretty little prince for a bit of buggery!" Her nose crinkled in a new wave of revulsion as he loudly guffawed at his own crude joke. However, he thankfully dropped her chin from his hand.

"I'd rather take my own life!" she retorted before she could stop herself. Wincing in displeasure and mouth immediately snapping shut at her outburst, she mentally kicked herself for being so bold.

"So the little nymph does have a voice!" he declared, unhanding her. Eyes flitting over her in swift evaluation, he nodded as though in silent agreement.

"Nymph, sir?" she strangled, praying he didn't mean what he said.

"Yes, boy, 'nymph.' A woman of the ancient world of those majestic islands of Greece. For you look as though one. Not surprising, considering your youth. How many years do you have to you?"

"Fifteen," she replied, convincing herself of the lie. It was really seventeen since she'd celebrated a rather dismal birthday but three weeks ago.

"You still have not answered my question," he said, voice suddenly becoming serious. "Can you read lad?"

"Yes sir," she resolutely retorted. That was indeed the one thing she most certainly wasn't lying about. In fact, she knew French, Latin and Greek, as any young woman of means and with access to a governess and tutors would. Though she kept that information to herself.

"Well, then," he slowly began, "How would you like to sail the seven seas, apprenticed a great doctor on the greatest ship in his Majesty's fleet, the _HMS Dauntless_?"

_Wait a moment, it couldn't be! No, it must be too good to be true-_

"You will press me into service sir, and I will have no such thing," she steadily replied, putting her cap back on and beginning to sidle away from him. That was until he reached out and took her by the elbow. His grip didn't hurt, but it still proved rather secure, as she was having difficulty getting out of it.

"Choose wisely, lad. For while I will not press you into service, there will be others will not be so tolerant. You need a vocation."

"Unhand me, sir!" she snorted, still caught in his grip.

"Otherwise, you wouldn't be hanging around such a seedy place," he continued, ignoring her protests. "So you may either fight your way in the streets and eventually starve to death, be pressed into a service of drudgery, or become apprentice to me. The latter allows at least some food in your scrawny belly and adventure!" he declared with a rather dramatic flurry of his hands as he finally let her go. "The War of Succession is going on boy, over in the colonies. Come with me and we may find many a rich French and Spanish frigates. The captured treasures shall be ours for the taking!"

She quickly took a step away from him, though her mind was whirling at the offer; she did need to get on a ship, and his sounded as through it was going to the colonies, precisely her ultimate destination. But she also needed to find out if McCarnelly was still the doctor on board the _Dauntles. _Considering this man claimed to be a doctor on that very ship, none of it made senses. He was far too young to have served with her father.

"What do they call you sir?" she found herself asking.

"'Doctor' of course."

"Your _name_," she snorted.

"Henry McCarnelly," he haltingly replied.

"What?" she almost yelled in surprise.

"Is that a problem?" he questioned fearfully, face suddenly falling. "I've paid all my debts," he continued, eyes darting around nervously. "Who paid you to find out, boy?" he groaned, beginning to back away from her.

"What was your father's name?" she pressed, taking a step forward.

"Who wishes to know?" he defensively retorted.

"I do, who else?"

Glancing around, he suddenly grabbed her by the collar without warning. Dragging her deeper into the docks away from the quay, he yanked her behind himself. Heart beating in her ears, she vainly squirmed this and way and that in order to get free. But again, his grip proved surprisingly strong. As she opened her mouth to scream, she let out a grunt of pain as she was shoved against a hard brick wall. One of his hands immediately clapped over her mouth, the other on her throat. Trying to bite at his hand, but finding it was cupped over in such a way that she couldn't, she snatched ahold of his vest. Punching him the chest as hard as she could muster and then kneeing him in the groin, she prayed for absolution against such violence as he let out a ragged groan of pain. Scrambling away, she stumbled back towards the quay.

_God protect me!_ she begged as she began running down the wooden walkways of the docks. Dodging various characters, whores and sailors, captains and traders, beggars and thieves, she made a mental note to never again be so stupid to put herself in such a weak position. Meanwhile, apparently a boy running for his life didn't seem important enough to notice. No one said a word or even looked slightly bewildered at her as she tore along the cobblestoned road

Continuing at the all out run, her breathing beginning to get heavy, she was suddenly stopped by a large mass of something. Or _someone_, she quickly realized. Looking up at the bright sky from where she lay on the ground, she tried to get her bearings. Her vision clouded and out of sorts, her ears ringing. Mostly as a result of her head cracking along the cobblestones in her fall. Blinking and gasping for air, she let out a groan of annoyance and pain.

"Steady on!" a cultured, nasally and highly annoyed voice called out. She tried to form some sort of apology, but had difficulty getting the words out. Wincing, she vainly attempted to scramble to her feet.

"Come now, Gillette, he's only had a misstep," another voice declared. This one sounded rather smooth, its clipped tones oddly reassuring despite the irritation dancing around the edges of it.

"I suppose you're right. Are you well, boy?" the original voice questioned.

Into her view came the face of what she assumed was some sort of naval captain. It had to be, judging by his immaculately clean dark blue cloak emblazoned with gold insignia and matching gold buttons. His ice blue eyes looked over her in question, no doubt taking in her disheveled appearance and vacant expression. "I think he's lost his senses," he said to the other man, tone surprisingly concerned.

"Looks as though he's lost some food too, judging by his bony little arms," the deeper voice hastily replied

"Come on lad, on your feet," the blue-eyed one said as she struggled to stay her heavy breathing. Slowly coming to her feet, she began with profuse apologies. "Just watch where you're going next time," he curtly replied, cutting her off, "Others may not be so kind in their forgiveness."

"Gillette, we shall be late if we do not move," the other one countered, pointing to his pocket watch with a huff of irritation. "We're already giving Sparrow one day's start. No need to make it longer, eh?"

"Sir," she mumbled, "Do you know where I may find the _HMS Triumph_?"

"You do not plan on stowing away do you? The penalty for that is compulsory service sans compensation," he demanded, dark green eyes flashing with indignation.

"No, sir!"

"A likely story-"

"I swear it, sir!" she breathed, swallowing hard. "I believe a certain Dr. McCarnelly is in her service. _Arthur_ McCarnelly."

"That would be quite difficult, considering he's dead," the one called Gillette replied with surprise.

"Come again?" she squeaked, color draining from her face as she blinked back the tears of frustration.

"Steady on," he warned, "I'm sure the crying is all for naught considering he was positively ancient," Gillette snorted. "Shocked all that traveling didn't do him in long ago."

"B-but I need to see him! My lord sent me with an important message to get to him concerning some extremely pressing matters from England!" she began, quickly wiping away the tears starting to stain her reddening cheeks. "Does he have a residence? A family? It is imperative I get this information to him. Please!" she begged, breathe coming in short bursts, the panic beginning to flood over her.

"Come now, boy, enough of that blubbering," Gillette groaned, quickly passing her a handkerchief. Speedily dabbing at her eyes, she handed it back to him with a cursory nod of thanks. "His son now serves in his stead. I think you may speak to him."

"His name would not happen to be, ehrm, Henry, would it?" she muttered.

"I thought you did not know his family?" the green-eyed one began, eyebrow quirking with suspicion.

"I do not sir. That is until I ran into him on the docks just now. I am afraid I did not make the best impression, for I thought him a rather nasty sort of villain. Possibly injured him in an effort to distance myself from him. And now I have ruined any chances of delivering my message I am afraid," she finished, almost to herself.

"Do you always prove this melancholy?" Gillette grinned, eyes widening with amusement. "Anyway, the _HMS Triumph_, you say, boy? No, we aren't in command of that one but rather the _HMS_ _Dauntless_. Commodore Norrington and I are just on our way to board that ship. However, the doctor will be part of our staff on the _Dauntless_.You may accompany us to the quay and hopefully deliver this apparently vital missive. Assuming you did not hurt our ship doctor's pride too much."

"Let us pray for such mercies," she whispered, immediately following the duo.

* * *

"And the little monster has decided to return?" Henry McCarnelly groused as she walked up the gangplank. "I don't know if shall find myself able to have children as a result of that little boot to the family jewels," he continued, wincing at the memory of the pain. "At least we know you've some spunk."

"I apologize, sir. My nerves," she retorted, a wave of sleepiness suddenly washing over her. She suddenly realized it'd been some days since she'd slept decently. "May we speak in someplace private?" she continued, ignoring his previous jibe.

"Stowaways aren't tolerated in his majesty's navy-"

"But apprentices to doctors are."

"So you are taking me up on my offer?" he replied with suspicion.

"To where is this ship going?" she questioned, eyes searching his face for any deception.

"The Port of New York, of course," he quizzically replied, "As it always does."

"Then I accept your offer," she breathed with a sigh of relief. Granted, it was not Boston, but it was close enough.

"I see," he snorted. "It will not be easy work," he mused. "Lots of blood and guts, naval battles against those dogs the French and Spanish, doldrums at sea, and hurricanes. Considering it is but June and we're at the beginning of the season, there will be many of them. Not to mention possible death; in a storm, by drowning, infection, disease, or blown apart by an errant cannonball or bullet in the battles. On top of that, too many men on board and close quarters-"

"Do I bunk with the men or with you?" she blanched.

"Shy are we?" he guffawed.

"Yes," she replied, shrugging and struggling to choke back her fear. No reason in lying about that either.

"Well, you are in luck mate. You get to share my quarters, located on the commissioned officers' deck. Not particularly luxurious, but better than a lot of the others. Granted, you'll get your own cot, but that's about it." Well, she'd have to manage somehow. He couldn't possibly be about at all times. She'd come this far, no need in turning back now. "So what were you saying about the need for a private discussion?" he said, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"I have news from my master, Lord Rutland," she murmured, her mention of the name causing his eyes to widen in surprise. "I fear Beldrake Castle finds itself in dire need."

* * *

"You must be telling some terrible joke," Henry sighed after hearing her long story (with her part in it omitted or changed as necessary, of course). Taking another long sip of his gin as he stopped pacing his quarters, he took a seat at the table. She nodded in disagreement. Fingering one of Lord Rutland's signet rings that she normally wore hidden from view on a chain around her neck, she could only shrug.

"I was searching for your father, but did not realize he had died five months ago. My condolences, of course."

"Of course," he replied, distractedly waving away her words. "How do I know you did not steal the ring?" he continued, eying it. It was a rather large gold signet ring, the seal of the Marquess of Granby stamped into the black oval onyx. She quickly tucked it back into her shirt as he stared at it.

"You do not, except by my swearing that I have not done so," she retorted.

"So you wish to travel to the colonies to find your lord's brother?"

"He was posted at here, but that was few years ago. Now, he's apparently moved on the main citadel in Boston last my master heard some months ago. A Major-General under General Nicholson."

"There is a war between us, France and Spain over this succession business. East India Company affairs are heavily involved as well, due to the shipping lanes. Blockades everywhere, of course," he sneered, the contempt for the apparently loathsome company evident in his voice. "Due to the war, he may be dead for all you know. And your trip may ultimately in vain. Not to mention, this ship does not pass through the port of New York for some weeks, as we have stops in St. Kitts and Nassau, at bare minimum. Pirate business. They say old Jack Sparrow is in Nassau and the Commodore is hunting him down."

"But I thought we head straight to the port!" she declared.

"Alas no," Henry retorted, "It is to be a long journey."

"It is a trip my lord said I must take," she sighed, not looking forward to having her plans set back yet again.

"So," he declared after a while, "You mean to tell me he sends a scrawny boy of 14 years on a trip around the world simply to tell his brother of his death and newfound fortune?" he grimly laughed.

"Yes," she resolutely replied.

"What's in it for you, lad?" he demanded, looking her dead in the eye.

"My uncle, Captain Langley-Vernon, knew your father." She then produced a good number of old correspondence wrapped with a string. While Dr. McCarnelly quickly scanned them, she continued. "As my father died when I was young, Captain Langley-Vernon became my guardian. He was like a father to me. So when he died but a year ago, I was sent to his distant relative, Lord Rutland, to be trained as future steward for the Rutland estate." she steadily replied. While there were bits of truth scatted in here and there, it still remained mostly a lie. As many times as she'd told it, she was surprised it didn't prove true. "Now that old Lord Rutland is dead, a distant relative has come to falsely claim the estate. As a result my position as steward is under threat. So I must get to the colonies and find the true heir, Lord Rutland's brother."

"Hmph," Henry said with a healthy dose with disbelief.

"You did not let me finish sir," she demanded, taking a deep breath. Time to show her ace. "There is a…rather handsome reward for my efforts. Should I find the proper heir of course."

"Reward?" he said eyes glittering in a way that made her stomach tighten, "How much?"

"500 guineas," she quickly replied, praying that she lied as well as Ambrose. He was the one who'd proven the most traitorous to her during this dreaded business, after all.

"I'll have half-"

"WHAT?!"

"I'll take half," Henry replied with a smirk, leaning back in his chair. "It's the least to be expected considering you'll be under my care for the duration of this trip."

"But I will be working for you!"

"For your apprenticeship. No one said anything about food or board. I only offered to train you-"

"An apprenticeship includes such things!" she screeched. Jumping up from her chair and balling her fists at her side with such fierce swiftness it temporarily threw him off. He flinched a bit before collecting himself. Quickly seeing his reaction, she couldn't help the feral grin that came to her face.

"But," she continued, voice dropping to its usual tone as she gracefully took a seat, "I'm sure arrangements can be made considering this odd situation." Her sudden return to apparent serenity caused him to give her an odd glance. Yet he still reached out a hand to shake on it. "Are we in agreement then, as gentlemen?" she continued. _What does it matter anyway?, _she mused,_ There were no 500 guineas, my "master" or rather caretakers are mostly absent and my cousin the Major General will take care of this charlatan when the time comes._

"We are in agreement," he murmured after a while. "250 guineas will be due to me upon your uncle's return," he continued, shaking her hand. She quickly withdrew her grasp, getting up from the chair and moving to the small cot opposite the entrance to the room. Located in the far corner from his own bed behind an elaborate screen from what looked to be the Orient, she said a silent prayer of thanks for the privacy she'd apparently be afforded.

"You will be hard nut to crack Mr. Granner," he suddenly chuckled, "That much I may see already." But he heard no reply, for she was already asleep, limbs spread out haphazardly in exhaustion.


	4. Nassau

Much to Christian's surprise, they made landfall in Nassau within a few days, though she wasn't allowed off the ship.

"Desertion equals a hanging, Christian," Henry blithely said to her as he leaned on the railing, watching some of the officers row to shore in two longboats. _The Dauntless_ was anchored far out, hidden in a cove to the north end of the island rather than among the motley collection of vessels at the docks.

"What makes you think I'll desert?" she incredulously asked, leaning on the rails next to him. "Besides, neither of us are technically part of the navy."

"Still, one may mistake you for it. It's just a warning. Nassau is a notorious pirate outpost, though not on this side of the island."

"Is that why the commodore and the officers are dressed in civilian clothes?" she replied, glancing out at as Norrington and few of the crew rowed to shore in a longboat

"I'm not at liberty to say," he slowly said, though he quickly nodded in agreement. "Come, we should finish going over your training in the navigational charts," he intoned, spinning on his heel and gesturing for her to follow, even as the worry in his voice immediately caused her to glance up with surprise. "No telling how soon you'll have to put such skills to practice," he continued. She followed suite, looking out across the calm sea just in time to sea the longboat of officers disappear around the curve of the island.

* * *

"What ye be staring at, wench?" Barbossa snorted, leaning over Tia Dalma's shoulder. "Bloody hell on the horizon!" he suddenly snapped, picking up his half-rotten hand from where, without warning, it'd fallen on the table next to her. Wincing, he snapped it back into place at his wrist.

"I told ye ya shouldn't be moving around so freely, at least not until ye be fully reborn," she ordered, shoving him away, only to cackle as her motions caused his arm to fall off at the elbow.

"Bloody witch!" he blathered, reattaching that limb as well.

While his body had mostly filled in from the rot of the dead, his limbs still always seemed to fall wherever they pleased. The pain of loosing them on a constant basis was no issue, as his slow regeneration through supernatural means took care of the more harsh aspects of such devilry.

"I ask ye again, what _are_ ye looking at in that bowl 'o water, ye daughter of the devil?" he snapped. Spinning around on her chair, Tia Dalma fixed the Pirate Lord a dark gaze, teeth bared as she reeled off a few words in a foreign tongue.

And suddenly his other hand fell off.

"Son of a whore!" he roared, skittering around the hut as his hand began to run away on two fingers.

Cackling with glee, she turned back to the jewel encrusted, intricately carved, large silver bowl of water sitting in front of her on the old, worn table. The darkness of the kitchen held at bay by four lit candles set as though upon the points of square around the bowl, she started to chant. Stopping every so often, she tossed a handful of potions in the water. They dissolved instantly as the liquid suddenly began to churn and bubble of its own accord. As shadows on the wall loomed unnaturally large, she began tapping her feet to the rhythm of her words. Then, she abruptly stopped, body going still, save her hands folded as though in prayer above the bowl. Starting to then sway to and fro in her chair, she tossed some green chili peppers into water. Throwing her head back and beginning to chant even louder, she scooted back in her chair as an eerie blue flame suddenly licked up. Twirling into a small tornado of fire, it stretched toward the ceiling, not burning a thing until it finally died down at her whispered command.

Letting out a huff of satisfaction, she glanced down at the water, which had turned into a polished mirror of sorts. Except she could see and hear Jack. He was in a dark, ramshackle bar, two wenches at his shoulders as he laughed and slurred his way through another order of rum. At Tia Dalma's utterance, the scene changed. And now she could took in the _Dauntless_, bobbing anchored out the in the ocean. Muttering again, she then saw Norrington ordering about his men as they rowed out to the quay in the longboat.

"This one, not so easy to shake, Jack," she declared with curiosity, sweeping a hand over the bowl. Her motion resulted in a closer look at the Commodore. "Ah, what pretty young one this bluecoat be," she smirked, eyes bright with appreciation. "Determined, he be too," she snorted, "But he heart, so shattered. Odd," she whispered with surprise. "Broken, but the pieces still be true. Like yours Jack," she sadly said. "But he heart in a different sort 'o dressing. A dangerous one, this Jaime," she frowned. "But a danger for you? Or-" She swept her hand over the water again. Wisping into the water mirror came the sight of an armada of boats streaming out of the Port of Bombay. The three-way cross sewn onto their white standards was unmistakable.

"A danger for de comin' darkness?" Tia hissed, the water swirling back to Norrington as he docked the longboat at the quay. "Anger and rage be drawing him to ya Jack. Don't be playing lightly with any of 'em, me bird," she warned, now seeing a dark skinned woman sidling up to Jack. She whispered into the captain's ear, her words the same muttered warning Tia Dalma called out over the bowl. Jack suddenly went still, glancing upwards. His gaze seeming to meet Tia Dalma's, he winked. Drunkenly hopping down from the bar stool, he parked himself in a booth in a dark corner of the bar. Near the back as per usual. And closest to the exit, of course, the dark-skinned woman following him.

"That be the right path, me devious one," Tia cackled, "Flee and fight to live 'nother day."

Dropping a handful of burned rice into the bowl, the witch arched back as a tornado of red fire licked up from the water. Chanting, she gripped the sides of the bowl until the flame died down. Silence descended as she gasped, collapsing onto the table. Cheek resting against the cool wood, she opened her eyes after a long while, gaze flitting over to the entrance of the kitchen. Barbossa stood leaning on the doorframe, eyes narrowed with disbelief.

"Ya ain't scared 'o witnessin' me devil ways?" she whispered after what seemed an eternity of quiet. Eyes black against the dim light, her shoulders heaved with the effort to speak.

He held her gaze, blinking slowly as shadows of the wall loomed higher, plunging them into further darkness. Closing his own eyes against the sight before him, he frowned a bit before finally giving an answer. "I seen worse," he shrugged, voice dry and cracked with disuse. "Aye," he snorted turning away, eyes bright and ice blue as his gaze fell the full moon, heavy and yellow in the dark sky, "Far worse."

Fixing him with a stare, Tia Dalma arched a brow. "In ye mother, yes," she quietly declared. He remained silent, though his slow stride halted at the open door of the hut. "She be a strong one, Katerina Barbossa. Aye, touched ya with her bit 'o black art, eh?" she uttered. "But she couldna hold off de church and her devil dogs."

"Silence, wench!" he hissed, skinny fingers gripping the doorjamb, "Or I'll slice that tongue right outta-"

"Taken by de flame of de ignorant," she slurred, cutting him as her voice curled around his ears like the smoke of the smoldering embers in the fireplace. "She blessed with de gifts of Hecate, did she?"

"Stop wranglin' around in me mind," he gritted, voice harsh and laced with bitter warning. The shadows suddenly retreated, the room falling silent, save the steady hiss of Tia's rasping breath. Suddenly the candles upon the table flamed upward. Especially as she speedily jumped to her feet, past fatigue mysteriously forgotten.

"Come on, Hector," she sing-songed, "We got errands to run, me darlin'."

"More?" he replied with a roll of his eyes, twisting his hand completely back into place at the wrist.

"Aye," she snapped, pulling on a worn straw hat and tying on a deep scarlet cloak about her neck, "Ya penance ain't done yet."

"Where we goin' to, ye blighter?" he ordered, even as he gathered up the old straw basket sitting on a hook by the doorway and passed her the key to lock the hut.

"Jack needs da winds," she snorted, "For he ain't gonna outrun this one without no help."

"An why do ye be caring?" Barbossa snarled.

"Because he has me piece of eight," she cackled, "And nobody will be getting' in between him and me freedom, long-sufferin', lovelorn, handsome navy boy or not," she chuckled. Barbossa simply rolled his eyes, her riddles falling on deaf ears once more.

* * *

Norrington breathed a sigh of relief as they quickly docked the longboat, his officers following him onto the quay.

"Looks like some of the prisoners were right, sir," Grove leisurely declared as Gillette nodded in agreement. "Anything to escape the noose," he continued.

"Aye," Gillette replied, "Though I'd rather hang than be shipped off to yet another colony," he snorted. Before departing, both accompanied Norrington to question some of the condemned pirate prisoners back at Fort Charles in Port Royal. Many refused to give up information, their loyalty to Sparrow baffling. Only two mentioned the pirate usually moved to Nassau to pick up supplies. Especially considering he'd left Port Royal in such a hurry, the stop at the pirate-friendly island seemed necessary.

So here they were, on the hunt and venturing into a rather seedy looking bar deep into the town. Watching as the Commodore questions the barkeep, the two officers flanked him, hands ready on their weapons just in case. In fact, they were so involved in waiting for some sort of chaos to ensue that they didn't notice the small, delicately pretty, dark-skinned woman taking in the scene from the far side of the bar. Measured gaze flicking over them, she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Finishing her drink, she quickly slipped out of the back.

Walking casually along the back alleyway, she waited to see if anyone followed. No one did, but she wasn't sure. _Oh well_, she mused before breaking into a run. Swooping in and out of the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon, she eventually made her way to another bar, _The Bonny Mae_. Looking up at the dilapidated sign above containing a real rudder and half a ship's wheel's nailed to the wooden display, she shiftily glanced around before ducking in.

"Are you positive she's one of Sparrow's crew?" Norrington whispered, back pressed against the side _The Bonny Mae_ within a few minutes.

"Yes sir," Groves steadily replied. "Remember her from when Sparrow escaped." How could he forget such a striking face so viciously staring back at him over the water as they watched Sparrow swing aboard his precious _Pearl?_

"Excellent tracking," Norrington grinned. Gillette originally spotted the woman slipping out the bar. Ordering the rest of his men to watch the docks and quay, Norrington followed her, Groves leading the way with Gillette just behind him. "I'll slip into through back," the Commodore continued. "You two watch the front. We only go after Sparrow and his crew, as I've no time to go after anyone else."

Meanwhile inside the tavern, the woman walked right up to bar. Shoving away the two wenches on his arms with a gaze of dangerous warning, she whispered into Jack's ear, "Word's on the wind. We been followed, Cap'n,"

"That so, my dear Anna Maria?" Jack replied, looking up at her through half-lidded eyes from under his hat. "Thanks for bringing trouble to my doorstep, love."

"Oh, shove it, Jack-"

"_Captain_ Jack," he rejoined. Looking up, he speedily winked at the ceiling before getting up from the bar stool. Glancing around at the various tables, he finally settled on one, parking himself in a booth in a dark corner of the bar. Near the back as per usual. And closest to the exit, of course, Anna Maria following him.

"They're probably watchin' the front and the back," she continued, ignoring his correction and sliding into the booth across from him.

"So we go out through the roof," he shrugged, swinging his legs up on the table and languidly crossing them.

"Come again?" she sniffed, casually leaning back in the booth. However, her hand was on her pistol. Jack only gave a bright smile at her incredulous tone. Gold teeth shining in the dim light, his kohl-rimmed eyes suddenly glanced to the bar. Jumping to his feet, he seemingly drunkenly ambled up the barkeep. The one-eyed old man gave him a distant once over from his unpatched eye, then ignoring him. That was until Jack smacked down two crowns onto the counter.

"Gotta avoid some folks out front and back, matey," he flashed another bright smile.

"What's it to me?" the heavy-set barkeep smirked, wrinkled head bobbing and sending even more wisps of grey hair fall out of his dark, knit cap.

"Three crowns then," Jack grinned in reply. The barkeep remained impassive, save his gaze flicking down to the coins on the bar.

"Five. And I ain't giving no guarantees."

"Six. And you buy the…how many?" he glanced back to Anna Maria, who'd followed him.

"Three," she snapped.

"Buy the three drinks. Distract 'em a bit, mate. Oh, and I'll have to get to roof."

"It'll cost you seven then," the barkeep retorted, crossing his arms. "Just slip through the window in the attic and it'll be right easy to climb to the roof. After that, I don't know ya and ain't never seen ya 'fore in me life."

"Done," Jack grinned, slapping the rest on the bar. With smile of triumph and a nod, the barkeep shoved the crowns into his ragged jacket pocket. Sending four of his best looking wenches outside with a yell and slap their behinds, he shoved drinks into their hands, cackling at their muttered curses. In fact, he was so distracted with completing his task he didn't notice Jack toss coins from the tip jar into his pocket, Anna Maria following him to the back stairs. "Twelve crowns, love," Jack snickered, feeling the weight of the coins in his pocket, "A good investment, yeah?"

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, though a quick smile crossed her face momentarily.

She briskly followed him as he pushed through a backdoor of the bar. Prancing up the stairs, he led them into the dusty attic at the top of the bar. As they climbed the pull-down ladder to attic, they coughed as tiny bits of rotten wooden tumble down. One of the rungs of the ladder even broke beneath Jack's foot, causing him to reel off a string of flabbergasted curses. However, they quickly made it into the tiny room. Strewn about with old boxes, ragged pieces of clothing and broken furniture, it was a mess. Waving away falling dusk with a drunken hand, Jack had to duck to order to not hit is head along moldering wooden rafters.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Anna Maria ordered, racing to the shutters at the opposite wall. Jack followed, ambling able about and taking quick inventory of the room. With a nod, he grabbed a sturdy-looking length of rope from a rusting hook in the wall some feet from the shutters.

"Madam?" he wildly gestured at the open window to in front of them. After an exaggerated bow, Anna Maria easily slipped her small frame through the opening. Motioning for him to stay quiet as she balanced on the thin lip of the roof, she further shoved the window open from the outside. Pointing over the edge below them, she then gestured upwards. And then she suddenly disappeared in one fluid motion over the lip of the roof. Jack followed her out the window, focusing on not looking down. Finally swinging himself upwards, he joined her, both lying flat on the roof and peeking over the edge of it.

"I'll take the smaller one," she began, only to have him clamp a hand over her mouth. Giving him a highly annoyed expression, she smacked his hand away. But not before the noise of the commotion from below floated up to them. The naval officers were loudly trying to push past the bar wenches and into the bar. One of the women suddenly tripped and fell, gratingly protesting over her sprained ankle, to which a smooth voice worriedly tried to calm her down. It only caused her to screech louder, some of the patrons to venturing out and taking in the scene with hoots and hollers.

"Ah, Jaime!" Jack murmured, grin sliding onto his face as he took in who helped the supposedly injured woman. "Didn't expect you to catch up with me quite so quick, mate!" Anna Maria nodded in frantic disagreement as she lashed the rope around her waist.

"You know what to do, love?" he whispered as he lowered her down the side of the roof opposite from the commotion below them.

"Aye," she whispered, "Tell the men you're delayed. We're sticking to the code though, after sunset," she adamantly finished .

"Don't blame you, mermaid," he blithely declared. Glancing at the sun behind him, he reckoned he had three hours to make it back to the _Pearl_. Meanwhile, Anna Maria landed safely on the ground. Unlashing the rope from around herself, she slinked away into the dark underbrush. "Godspeed, madam," Jack quietly declared, lashing the rope around himself. Hitting the ground with a satisfied grin, he untied the rope from around his middle and turned around.

And then, he heard the unmistakable click of a loaded pistol behind him.

"Move one muscle, Sparrow, and it will be the last movement you ever make," a cultured voice called out to his left.

"You're in a grand mood today, bluecoat," Jack snorted, glancing back at his captor. "Which one is you? Groves or Gillette? Awful hard to tell you hoity-toity ones apart, eh?"

"None of your business. Hands up. I arrest you in the name of the Kin-"

"I wouldn't be sayin' that quite yet, bluecoat," another voice spat, this time to Jack's right, "Unless you be wishin' to loose yer head, yeah?"

"I have never shot a woman before," another voice rang out, almost directly behind Jack, though some distance away, "So if you will lower your weapon, madam, thereby allowing me to arrest you without incident-"

"Jaime?" Jack drawled, hands high in the air as the soldier standing next to him gave him a look of warning, "Come now, let 'er go. She ain't done no harm to you."

"She has Lieutenant Gillette at gunpoint," Norrington tersely replied, "And it is a deadly offense to threaten a member of his majesty's navy."

"Lookin' like you'll have to be spoilin' your record of not shooting a woman then," Anna Maria hissed.

"Anna Maria, I told you to get your arse back to the _Pearl_!" Jack lazily replied, "Said I could go handling this group just fine." Spinning around on his heel as Gillette yelled a warning, the pirate froze. _Excellent, it's a standoff, _he chuckled to himself. In the middle of the deadly triangle, Gillette's pistol was pointed at his chest as Anna Maria stood next to the officer, her own pistol pointed at Gillette's head. Meanwhile, a rather uncomfortable looking Norrington stood behind Anna Maria, pistol drawn and pointing at her chest as well, his rapier withdrawn and pointing at Jack.

"Madam, put down your weapon!" Norrington suddenly snapped.

"Make me!" she snarled.

"I do not wish to shoot you-"

"Ain't takin' me alive!"

"Anna Maria-"

"Shut-up, Jack!" she grit, "They ain't selling me back!"

"Miss Maria-"

"Shove it, Commodore! Now tell yer bluecoat friend to get that pistol outta Jack's face-"

"_Captain!_" Jack muttered, "How many times do I need to be sayin' it? It's _captain-_"

"SHUT-UP _CAPTAIN _JACK!" all exclaimed.

"My, we is all touchy today, ain't we?"

"That is it!" Gillette declared, raising his pistol, "For the last time, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, I arrest you in the name of the King-"

A yell of surprise tore through air. Taking the opportunity of confusion, Jack dropped to ground, kicking away from Gillette. Then the echo of a shot rang in their ears.

And suddenly, Jack witnessed a furious whirl of flailing limbs in front of him. The pirate jumped to his feet just in time, for Norrington hit the ground. Rolling right past the pirate, the Commodore's grip was locked around Anna Maria's back as she wildly attempted o scratch and kick at the officer. But it proved a vain pursuit, the momentum of both of them speedily descending down the grassy incline prevented her from doing any permanent damage. As she let out a yelp of surprise, Norrington impulsively threw his arms around her shoulders. Curling himself around the petite woman and yanking her to his chest, he braced for the inevitable collision, for right in their path stood the trunk of a rather large palm tree.

They both hit the trunk with a groan, though Norrington's body absorbed most of the impact as he'd intended. However, Anna Maria was shocked to silence as she attempted to get her bearings. Instinctually locking her wrists above her head in one hand, Norrington's eyes went wide. Having tackled her just as she squeezed off a shot at Gillette, he sent them both into a roll. And now the dazed Commodore glanced down to find he was straddling the female pirate. Her face cradled in his shoulder, she panted with exertion, breath tickling his neck. Still stunned, he felt her let out an exhalation of alarm. And then she shifted beneath him.

However, he was now alert enough to roll from away from her as she swung her leg up to knee him in the groin. Hands flying to his holster, he swiftly stabbed downwards. Spearing the edge of her shirt into the hard soil with his dagger, he rolled from on top of her. She was effectively trapped, struggling to wrench her shirt away. Leaping to his feet, he spun around to see an uninjured though shaken Gillette pointing in front of him, the grove of trees marking the beginnings of the dense woods behind the tavern.

"He's gone into the woods-" the officer stammered.

"Keep an eye on her!" the Norrington growled, yanking his rapier from the ground and racing into the trees. He suddenly heard a high-pitched howl of pain behind him. Worried at first as he ran on, he realized it is a woman yelling rather than a man. Ignoring the concern tugging at him, he continued in pursuit of Jack.

Sparrow had cut a clear path in his escape. Norrington also took note that the palm trees were closer together, the harsh sunlight of the afternoon barely reaching him. Ignoring the sweat pouring down his brow, he continued running. Following Sparrow's fresh path through the waist-high brush, he ducked low hanging branches and leapt over the odd tree stump that loomed below him.

After a while the trees suddenly thinned out and the sun glared down upon the commodore without warning, temporarily blinding him. He abruptly skittered to the edge of a cliff, the rocks and soil under his feet giving way. Only by providence did he speedily realize what was occurring. He barely had time to jump back before the ground where he formerly stood plunged down into the lazily moving river some hundreds of feet below. Falling back onto his bottom, he caught his breath, eyes wide at his barely avoided plummet over the side.

_No time for rest!_ he mused, scrambling to his feet. Cursing at no sign of Sparrow on the other side of the ravine, he raised an incredulous brow. _Impossible! The villain must be around here somewhere!_ Glancing back and forth, he noticed no bridge, natural or man-made, leading to the other side. Doubling back, he tried to track the pirate but found no fresh signs of anyone. Bursting through the trees back at the clearing, he leaned against a thick tree trunk. Adrenaline subsiding, he was forced to catch his breath, even as he mentally plotted his next action.

"Sir?"

"Yes Gillette?" he panted, irritation blazingly evident as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"The woman, w-well, she got away, I am afraid."

"Excellent!" Norrington sarcastically snorted, head snapping up in the direction of Gillette's voice. Holding back a gasp, his eyes went wide at the sight in front of him; Gillette stood slumped against the tree, without jacket or waistcoat and left arm bloodied through his otherwise pristine white shirt. Clutching at his upper arm, he grit his teeth in pain as one of Norrintong's men poured a flask of liquor over the apparent injury. Lying in the grass to Gillette's side was Norrington's bloodied dagger. "Oh dear God!" the commodore muttered, rushing to his friend's aid.

"'Tis only a scratch, sir," Gillette breathed as Groves ripped away the officer's shirt sleeve. "I apologize for loosing them, sir-"

"Don't you dare apologize," Norrington ordered, voice low with concern as he inspected the wound with Groves, "It was a difficult situation."

"I should not have failed you-"

"It's not a question of failure, it's a question of ensuring your safety, which I did not. I should prove the one apologizing," the Commodore intoned, quickly ripping Gillette's discarded shirtsleeve into long strips. Speedily wrapping the officer's arm, he ordered the other man treating Gillette to gather up the men at the quay. "He couldn't have gone far, Commander Reddings. Ready the longboat for the _Dauntless._ We'll catch up with them yet."

"Aye, sir," Reddings saluted. Watery brown eyes glancing back uncertainly at Gillette, he bit his lip, round face turning red as he scrambled away at Norrington's order.

"Can you manage, Andrew?" Norrington asked, an alarmed expression crossing his face as Gillette closed his eyes against the pain.

"A mere cut from a slip of a woman," he grinned, face pale, "I think it would be quite shameful if I couldn't manage, sir."

"A devil woman!" Groves muttered, managing to pull Gillette completely to his feet. "She's a pirate Andrew, not some wilting flower. I'm sure she meant to kill you, as they're all want to do, the heathens."

"We need to get him back to the _Dauntless_," Norrington ordered.

"Sparrow?"

"We'll catch up with his precious ship, Reginald." With that promise, the soldiers headed out of the clearing.


	5. The Best Laid Plans

Waiting until the sun just barely touched the horizon, Jack clambered down a tree some feet before the edge of the clearing where he'd watched Norrington stumble to just before the cliff. Guessing that Jaime passed him roughly two hours ago, he calculated that he had but an hour to get back to the Pearl. Assuming she was still there.

He made his way back to _The Bonny Mae_ with little trouble. Crouching down, he frowned as he saw large drops of blood upon the grass. However, seeing a ripped bit of clean white shirt, he chuckled. Then he began searching among the trees, crawling along the clearing. Finally, he found it; drawn onto the trunk of a tree was a crude white chalk rendering of a boat with a sail, an arrow above the boat pointing upwards.

_My clever little bird_, he chuckled, getting to his feet and rushing out of the clearing. Instead of heading for the quay, he cut a path to the south of the tavern, in the opposite direction. As a result, it took a while longer to reach the edge of the town. Dodging drunks and numerous ladies of the night (thankfully without a slap) as the rickety taverns begin lighting their outdoor torches, he reached a rather narrow dock. It led down to a rather silt-ridden river. Dark green flora, fauna and tiny, multicolored bushes of all of flowers lined it banks, signaling it as relatively undisturbed land. An odd bird or two called out, but it was otherwise silent. "Borrowing" a longboat, he unlashed it from the dock timbers.

_A half-hour 'til sundown. Better hurry, cap'n,_ he mused, swatting away the fireflies circling his head. Easily rowing along the long dock, he whistled to himself. Increasing his efforts as the sun steadily sunk, he rowed further into the dense jungle. Within a few moments, he could barely see his hand in front of his face. The canopy of trees above effectively formed a tightly knit ceiling of darkness. Eventually, he rowed into a small rocky cave. Dipping his finger in the water, he smiled, tasting the salt of the sea. He was no longer on the river.

The jagged ceiling of the cave was set with glimmering stones, reflecting bits of light from the white sand beneath the quietly lapping turquoise water. However, the ceiling was so low, Jack was forced to lie down in his boat to pass under. Thankfully, an old rope had been tacked into the ceiling at various intervals. It allowed the pirate to pull himself and the boat along some hundreds of feet. It proved tiring work, but the prospect of the crew sticking to the code and loosing the Pearl yet again drove him onwards. When a burst of fresh sea air almost knocked his hat off his head, he gave a slick grin of relief. For as he exited the cave, there sat his precious_ Pearl_.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered, hearing the tell-tale clank of the raising of anchor. "Can't you sea dogs, wait?!" he yelled, standing up in the longboat and waving his arms. Cursing the dusk for lack of a lamp to signal, he almost flailed overboard. Regaining his balance, he plopped back in the seat, furiously rowing. Not a moment too soon, for his longboat hit the bow of the ship. "Throw me a rope, you gits!" he declared, craning his neck upward.

"It be Jack!" Gibbs rumbled from above, "A rope, you blighters!" Without warning, the end of a thick line smacked Jack on the head, dazing him for a moment. However, he quickly recovered, swatting at it and scampering upwards. Swinging himself over the rails, he gave all on deck a deep bow.

"You be a lucky bastard," Anna Maria sniffed, though she cracked a grin. "I see you got me message?"

"Arrow up means escaped. Arrow down means clapped by the bluecoats," Jack nodded as Gibbs slapped him on the back before returning to bellowing orders. Raising the sails, they prepared for a swift exit, a sudden strong gust of wind helping them along.

"Gotta good wind blowin' in from the east," Anna Maria chuckled.

"We got friends in high places, love, as ye know," he waggled his brows. "And I say the luck lies with you, madam," Jack snorted, "How ever did you manage to escape?"

"'Sides a few bruises, stabbed a bluecoat through 'is arm," she shrugged.

"Surprised you didn't kill 'im," Jack grinned, sauntering over and throwing an arm about her. He quickly made note of her torn shirt.

"Don't need the murder of an officer added to me list of warrants," she smiled, shrugging off his arm. "What be your orders, cap'n?"

"We got supplies?"

"Stocked so tight, we may sink, that we may, cap'n" Gibbs called out, giving the crew a temporary reprieve from his commands.

"Excellent," Jack smiled as he stroked his chin in sudden deep thought. Quickly snapping out it as the crew hung on to his final words, he ordered. "Set sail for Istanbul, mates. Jaime will be right pissed now that one of his be injured. Better to loose 'im off the shoals of Black Bay Island over by Bermuda 'fore we head out to open sea. We've a key to get back for a certain chest that has me name on it-"

"But don't ya owe money to ole Mullah Sereph, the Corsair King?" Anna Maria called out from her position at the helm. However, she spun the wheel, changing the Pearl's direction.

"And he said he'd kill ya if you graced his doorstep," Gibbs shrugged, "Especially after ya lied and said ya took the key the first time."

"Eh, that was won fair and square," Jacks lazily waved. "He knows it ain't about fair play Besides, who said we was gracin' his doorstep?"

"Stoppin' in Turkey is as good as gracin' his doorstep," Gibbs snorted.

"Just a risk we take, boys," Jack grinned, "And ladies," he nodded to Anna Maria. "Meantime, No lights upon the deck; we sail in the blackness. I'll be down in me quarters. Don't come knockin' unless me _Pearl_ be sinkin', savvy?" All nodded in reply, admittedly relieved to find their captain back. As the sails caught the fresh gust of wind, none of them noticed the distant speck of the _Dauntless_ at their stern, on break of the horizon.

* * *

"That's good, boy, steady on," Henry quietly said. Leaning over Christian's shoulder and holding up a lamp to illuminate the sight of her work, he watched as she steadily sewed close the slash to Gillette's arm. Nodding in reassurance, he continued, "You're doing a fine job."

_"Rapide et petit, c-c'est… le billet!"_ Gillette slurred, taking another swig of rum from a tin cup barely in his grasp.

"Aye, I'm trying to keep it small as you like, sir," Christian stammered. "I hope I'm not hurting you too much?" she swallowed. It was only her second stitching, the first one so minor it was barely a worry. But this one was wicked and long. Slashing along Gillette's upper arm right above the elbow, it was roughly three inches in length. Cutting upwards, it proved surprisingly deep, though not deep enough to hit the bone, thankfully. Swallowing back the impulse to wretch, she was thankful it was a clean job of it.

_"Je suis ivre trop pour m'inquiéter, mon homme,"_ Gillette giggled, taking another swig. _"Donnez-moi plus de genièvre…s'il vous plait?"_ Norrington quickly poured him a cup of gin as requested, which he immediately guzzled down. _"Je dis, cela… qui laissera à peine une cicatrice!"_ the officer said with surprise, his bleary gaze studying Christian's progress.

"He's precise," Henry replied with a fleeting grin. "The stitching's so miniscule, one might mistake it for a fine bit of lace!"

"Practice, sir," Christian murmured, focusing on her task. Really, it was little different from the days spent in the parlor at Beldrake with her embroidery. So long as she thought of actual skin as fabric, the sutures, the threads of a complicated pattern. "His French is perfect, I must say," she continued in an effort to distract herself from the sight of the blood.

"I'm surprised you understand it," Norrington steadily replied, giving her a once over that caused her to quickly glance back to her work. "His parents were French," the Commodore continued.

"I thought he was of Belfast," she quietly said.

"He is," Henry retorted, keeping an eye on her work. "But his parents were French Huguenot linen traders who fled to Ireland after the Edict of Fontainebleau-"

"The persecution of Protestants in France," she quickly replied before catching herself. "I read quite a bit," she added to explain her knowledge.

"I see," Henry smirked.

Within a half hour, she'd completed her task, rubbing a mixture of seawater and suds of hard soap over the wound. "Now, come down everyday and have me change the bandages," she insisted, "And after a fortnight, you'll have to change them every other day. Within a month you should heal, though keep it covered at all times to avoid scaring." Gillette could only nod before he collapsed back onto the table. Drunk from the combination of rum acting as anesthetic and tired from the events of the day, he was carried off to his quarters by Henry and Norrington as Christian quickly cleaned up the operating room. Boiling the rags used to wipe up the blood, hanging them to dry and organizing the various medical kits, she quickly made her way to Norrington's quarters.

It was near ten that night, most of the rest of the crew having already eaten. As had become a nightly ritual, Christian joined Henry for dinner in his quarters or somewhere along a secluded section of the deck. However, roughly once every few days, Henry joined Norrington, Gillette and Groves for a late dinner in the captain's quarters. This night was apparently such an occasion for the dinner, though with Gillette's present condition, tonight it was limited to Henry, Groves and the Commodore.

Normally, she would have avoided the officers at all costs, considering her false sex. But she'd quickly found it was safer to shadow the doctor, as there was less chance of being caught alone. Especially this week, as her courses began a few days ago. Initially panicking and wrought with terror at Nature's betrayal, she quickly assessed her options. She had ready access to a large supply of bandages to take care of such feminine necessities (tossing them overboard or burning them to destroy the evidence). Not to mention, access to various concoctions to quell her churning stomach. Regardless, she wasn't as alert as she wished to be. And so for this week, she stuck especially close to Henry to ensure she didn't slip up.

"Another glass, Henry," she heard the Commodore declare as she walked into the captain's quarters. Making a left, she cautiously entered the dining room. The numerous dangling black iron lanterns strung to rafters gave the small, dark wooded room its usual cozy glow. It was modestly decorated, save the dark red and black oriental rug in the dining table the chairs and dining table sat on. Overall, still a rather simple space.

"You've already finished quite a bit, James," Henry laughed, though he poured another draught of bourbon as Christian quietly took a seat next to the doctor at the end of the small, square, cherry wood table. Norrington sat at its head, Henry to the Commodore's left and Groves to his right, across from the doctor. Next to Groves was Gillette's empty chair. All the men were in their shirtsleeves and waistcoats, without a wig or jacket. As a result, these dinners proved quite informal affairs. It was one of the few times Christian found no need to wear a hat, her dark, wavy hair pulled back into a short, messy ponytail. Chest securely wrapped down as per usual, she too had abandoned her jacket and remained in her shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

"We've lost bloody Sparrow again for the present. At the very least allow me to drink myself into a stupor," Norrington retorted to Henry's jibe with an arched brow before he knocked back the contents of his crystal goblet.

"Seems you've been drinking a bit more, James," Groves chuckled, snapping open his napkin open and placing it on his lap. "I see your assistant has graced us with your presence, Henry?" he continued.

"Sirs," Christian replied with a faint nod.

"Just in time," Norrington snorted, mouth sliding around his words. "I would drink to your rather late arrival, Mr. Granner, but I do no wish these two old women to scold me," he drunkenly blinked.

"Always so dramatic," Groves rolled his eyes, though he laughed. "Shall we?" he gestured to the spread of food on the table. Tearing into simple meal of chicken and potatoes with a bit of lime juice, Christian doesn't say much. As was her usual mode of operation, she sat back and made herself unnoticeable, preferring to attentively listen rather than attract attention.

"Now really, James, did you always commence drinking like this after another pirate slipped through your hands?" Groves smirked, pouring the Commodore another glass.

"Bloody Sparrow's not 'another pirate,'" Norrington replied with a frown, "He's a bloody villain-and-a-half with little regard to law or logic, always inexplicably able to escape despite my best intentions," he growled, "And so I drink."

"Just ensure that this it all does not compensate for the loss of another sort," Henry quietly said.

"_She_ no longer crosses my mind, I assure you," Norrington brusquely replied.

"You're a terrible liar, James," Henry murmured, gaze sliding towards his friend over his wine glass as Norrington blanched for a quick moment. Suddenly laughing uncomfortably, he waved off Henry's concern. Groves and the doctor continued the conversation back and forth, Norrington barely paying attention as Christian listened rather than contributing. Eventually, they finished and all took their leave of the Commodore.

"Will you prove able to get to bed?" Groves quietly asked, seeing Norrington slumped against the chair at the table.

"I-I shall manage," he magnanimously replied with a carefree wave of his hand. A look passing between Groves and Henry, the doctor quickly dismissed Christian. Raising an inquisitive brow, she left the captain's quarters, ears pricking with interest as she heard the other two attempt to maneuver the Commodore into bed. _I hope he doesn't suffer too bad a hangover_, she thought to herself as she wandered down the hall to the doctor's quarters.

* * *

Dear God, he had a hangover. And by all that was holy, it proved utterly horrendous.

Feeling his way along the rails, Norrington squinted against the rosy sky to the east as he took in deep gulps of fresh air. Shuddering as the pounding in his head seemed to only increase, he swallowed back to the urge to unleash his breakfast into the sea. Especially as the sky brightened with the rising, blindingly bright sun. Thankfully, few men were on deck, the changing of the watch scheduled in a half hour.

"Dr. McCarnelly mentioned you might need this," a mildly surprised voice called out behind him. Spinning about he bit back a groan, as it felt as though his brain was set to fall out his skull. Blinking in the surprise at the sight of the doctor's apprentice, the boy's inquisitive expression bordering on a smirk, though it disappeared almost before he had time to register it. _Christopher? Crawley? Christoff?_ he racked his brain, trying to remember the boy's name.

"Christian Granner," she declared. _Am I really that obvious?_ he mused. "Here," she all but ordered, giving him a flask, "McCarnelly said something about this being your 'usual remedy?""

"So it would seem," he steadily replied despite his churning stomach. Pinching the end of his nose, he knocked back the vile concoction of to tomato juice and lime laced with the ground up powder of Henry's oddly effective pain remedy. "Tell me, Mr. Granner," he winced, "How exactly does one stand a hangover?"

"By not drinking?" she shrugged, tart words flying from her mouth before she had time to think about them.

"Of course," Norrington dryly replied, gripping the railing and passing her back the flask, "Now why didn't think of that befo-"

"Ship ahoy!" the watchman suddenly shouted from the crow's nest far above them, "And she bears black sails!"

"Prepare yourself, Mr. Granner," Norrington intoned, snapping to attention and speedily moving down the deck. Watching as the Commodore tosses out orders as though he was in perfectly good health, Christian arched an eyebrow in surprise, shaking her head with disbelief.

"He was born to sail," a proud voice said behind her. Turning about, she saw Groves give her a nod of satisfaction as he speedily took her by the shoulder, ushering her below decks. "'Tis safer if you remain downstairs in your quarters. We may be boarded and you've no clue how to wield a weapon." Eyes wide, she silently agreed, glancing back at the speck of the _Pearl_ on the horizon.

"They be gaining, cap'n!" Gibbs shouted from the topsails of the _Pearl_ as he loosened them. Skittering down the rigging, he gave a satisfied smile as the wind suddenly licked up, catching them full and wide.

"And so we outrun 'em," Jack growled, taking in the sight of the through his spyglass. "Anna Maria?!" he bellowed.

"Aye?"

"Give me ship what ya got and outrun them bluecoats!"

"Aye-aye, cap'n," she smiled. Spinning the wheel, she braced as the _Pearl_ began cutting across the ocean. "Bermuda!" she called out, pointing at the speck of looming land on the starboard side. "We may be able to loose 'em on the sandbar. Ain't no need to dock, Jack."

"Proceed on then," Jack grinned, "Gibbs, do what you do best and get on those sails!"

"Oi! C'mon then, ya destined dogs!" Gibbs shouted across the deck, "Run the sails free! Yer necks depend on it. Heave-ho, then! _Heave-ho!_" Racing to the rigging and hoisting himself up to the crow's nest with surprising and speedy agility, Jack took in Norrington shouting orders on the deck of the Dauntless. Flailing as the Pearl lurched again, he steadied himself, chuckling as the Dauntless began to grow smaller in his spyglass.

"What the bloody hell…let loose the _sail!_" Gillette ordered again from the Dauntless, sending some young officers off with a nod. "How can he possibly think he may outrun us?"

"The _Black Pearl_ is apparently one of the fastest ships of the seas," Norrington tightly retorted, "And being that we are a warship, we cannot sail directly into the wind. And so he runs, avoiding any sort of outright combat-"

"The coward!" Gillette declared.

"He's clever, I may give Sparrow that," Norrington snorted, hands behind his back as he stood ramrod straight at the wheel. Quietly murmuring orders to the young sub-lieutenant who steered them, he crossed his arms, ordering Gillette to repeat his orders for the sails. "We just have to remain broadside and ensure he never catches us on the bow or stern with raking fire," he continued after some time. "Let run the sails."

"He'll lead us to the sandbars, sir," Gillette murmured, as to not let any others hear his questioning, "We'll run aground in Bermuda and-"

"He _thinks_ he'll lead us into the sandbar," Norrington smirked, arching a brow, "But we will stop short, swing to his portside and let loose our 24s broadsides." A dawning of realization flew across Gillette's face and he smiled as Norrington nodded, touching his nose. "And my lieutenant has learned another lesson," the commodore grinned for a fleeting moment. "We may not prove the fastest, but we are a first rate ship of the line," he added as he sent down orders below decks to prepare to fire broadsides. "Use only the single shot," Norrington ordered, "I'd prefer Sparrow and crew alive."

While the commotion aboard the _Dauntless_ seemed mindless, it actually proved a well orchestrated company of order. The men moved to unfurl the sails and lay down the lines as orders swiftly carried along to the bottom decks to prepare the cannon. Groves immediately ordered the powder monkeys to begin their runs from the armory up to the gun decks. The gun carriages were run out as the _Dauntless_ began its swift advance. Preparing the gun battery on starboard side, Groves waited until the Black Pearl came broadsides.

But it never happened.

"They gainin' Jack!" Anna Maria called out in thinly veiled alarm, spinning the wheel and as the _Dauntless_ suddenly appeared on her portside. "Almost within firing range…I don't think they be taking the bait of the sandbars!" she yelled to Jack as he rushed from the stern of the Pearl.

"Aye, I figured Jaime be too smart for it," Jack retorted, "Just keep the line steady Maria. We'll outrun 'em," he drawled. Glancing upward at the sky and muttering, he clasped the strange medallion made of bones that hung around his neck from an old leather cord. Inexplicably, the sky began to darken, clouds rolling in above and casting the world about an almost eerie dark gray. The wind suddenly almost blowing his hat from his head, it caught the black sails of the _Pearl_, pushing the vessel through the choppy waters with enough force to cause all crew along deck to stumble forward. Cutting through the sea, she easily pulled ahead of the _Dauntless_.

"Impossible!" Norrington hissed at witnessing his quarry suddenly plow through the rising waves. Ordering his men to run the sails even wider, he rushed to the bridge.

"More sails?" Groves shouted about the increasingly howling wind as he struggled to hold onto his tricorne. Firmly planting himself against the rails dividing the quarterdeck from the half-deck, he continued, "They are as wide as they may go, sir-"

"Then why are we not catching his wind, Gillette?!" Norrington snorted, gesturing at the _Pearl_ as she sped ahead of them, whipping her broadsides suddenly out of range. "They're not even in firing range," he grit.

"I swear, we're going as fast as we may," Gillette intoned as he quickly moved past the Commodore, checking the progress of the sails himself.

"What are your orders, sir?" a young midshipman drawled behind Norrington as Gillette rushed along the decks for further inspection. Grey eyes narrowed in concentration, the questioning officer did not hide the smirk that seemed to always grace his rather patrician face.

"Tell Lieutenant Groves to fire at will, Midshipman Cavendish," Norrington tightly ordered, "As we won't have time to relay the order should we ever catch up with that pirate ship."

"Aye, sir," he casually replied, giving a lazy salute and ambling away. Norrington redirected his attention to the deck, racing to the bow. Gripping the railing, he bit back a curse as the _Pearl_ sailed even further ahead. Inexplicably, she was barely off the horizon. And the same wind that appeared to aid her buffeted the _Dauntless_, tossing her to and fro in the increasingly choppy sea. The sky was dark, clouds rolling in from seemingly nowhere. Not even the rising sun permeated the menacingly gray sky.

"Bloody hell!" Norrington growled as Gillette relayed that the sails were far they could go, which wouldn't prove the best idea in the increasing wind that inexplicably blew against them. The _Pearl_ continued to dodge them ahead, dangerously close to the horizon now. Biting his lip, Norrington glanced upwards, taking in the loud flapping of the topsail and trying to stay on his feet as the Dauntless lurched. "Keep at it, Gillette," he ordered, "I'll not loose them."

"The sails, sir-"

"Keep at it, _Lieutenant,_" Norrington tensely retorted, "I'm sure we may stand this trial." Gillette gave his commander a long look, through he quickly saluted and walked away with his orders. But as the hours passed, they were no closer to their prize. The _Pearl_ still sailed at the horizon while the _Dauntless_ jerked back and forth on the combative sea. The clouds above continued to thicken as well, the wind against them.

Hearing the familiar footsteps of his Lieutenant, Norrington stiffened. Years of experience told him the report would not be satisfactory after all.

"Gillette?" he sighed, still looking his through his spyglass where he stood at the bow. Thankfully, the _Pearl_ had not passed the horizon quite yet. She may slow if she thinks we've let up the chase for now, he mused.

"Aye?"

"Take in the sails. The wind's against us and the sea proves unstable."

"Right…ehrm, yes sir," Gillette swallowed, "Right away sir." Glancing at Norrington for a bit, he finally spun on his heel and bellowed out the order, leaving the contemplative Commodore at the rails.

The _Black Pearl_ had slipped through his fingers yet again.

* * *

_"Rapide et petit, c-c'est… le billet!"_ - Quick and small, that's t-the…ticket!

_"Je suis ivre trop pour m'inquiéter, mon homme,"_ - I'm too drunk to care, my lad

_"Donnez-moi plus de genièvre…s'il vous plait?"_ - Give me more gin…please?

_"Je dis, cela…qui laissera à peine une cicatrice!"_ - I say, that'll…that'll barely leave a scar!

**Edict of Fontainebleau** – An edict passed in October 1685 by King Louis XIV of France. It revoked the 1598 **Edict of Nantes**, which gave religious freedom to French Protestants a.k.a the Huguenots. The Edict of Fontainebleau ordered the destruction of Huguenot churches, closed Protestant schools and openly persecuted the Huguenots in an attempt to intimidate them into converting to Catholicism. As a result, approximately 210,000 to 900,000 Huguenots left France over the next two decades. Many settled in other Protestant areas such as England and her territories, the United Provinces (known as Holland today), Denmark, the Holy Roman Empire, South Africa and the North American colonies. On January 17, 1686, Louis XIV claimed that out of a Huguenot population of 800,000 to 900,000, only 1,000 to 1,500 remained in France.

In the late 1600s, Belfast was settled by a small number of French Huguenots who established a sizeable linen trade there. Since the actor who plays Gillette, Damian O'Hare, is from Belfast, I just used his place of origin. Per my timeline, Gillette, Groves, Henry and Norrington were all born around the late 1680s to the early 1690s. Since this story takes place starting in May 1717, they are in their late 20s.


	6. Of Dreams and Nightmares

_There is nothing you may do, James." _

"_But Elizabeth-!" _

"_My fate is what it has come to be," she serenely replies as she rearranges herself on the hard wooden stool. Kicking at the dirty straw that litters the squalid prison cell, she fixes him with a distant expression as he stands on the opposite side of the bars. _

"_Surely Mr. Turner-" he swallows. _

"_Will is dead," she murmurs, "I've told you thing a million times, my dear; my fiancé has cut out his heart and gone away. And soon I shall join him," she sighs, closing her eyes for a bit. "Is there something so wrong with wishing to be with my beloved?" she smirks. _

"_But I love you and have always adored you! You should have been **my** wife!" he snarls, rattling the iron bars of her prison. Only, she does not look at him with alarm or even disgust at his outburst. Only pity. "Lizzie," he groans, resting his forehead on the bars, "Please-" _

"_Give this to my father," she sniffs, cutting him off and withdrawing a letter from the pocket of the odd costume she wears. It is made of black silks, the long coat and wide black sash brocaded with the patterns of the east. Her shirt and pants are of black silk as well, the leather boots embroidered at the oddly upturned toes. Even the black hat upon her head is like that of some barbarian eastern pirate. Dark eyes rimmed with kohl, she looks as though some terrible pirate queen. Except she is here in prison. Set to hang at dawn tomorrow. _

"_James," she sadly smiles rising from her chair and coming to the bars. She passes him the letter, her fingers lingering on his hand for a bit too long. "It is all your fault." And suddenly her lips are upon his. The taste of her is bitter and salty, her scent sickeningly sweet, like cheap scented oils-_

_Inexplicably, he now stands in the courtyard of the fort, watching with increasing horror as she is lead to the gallows. She does not say a word, though her head is held high. The crimes are read, though he can barely hear them. Except for the last one. _

_Piracy. _

_He does not know why he doesn't attempt any rescue effort as the hooded executioner places the noose around her slim, elegant neck. Her dark eyes meet his. And suddenly a vicious smile flashes across her face at his appalled expression. _

"_At least I've lived a life with love," he thinks he hears her whisper, though her lips do not move. "At least I have with no regrets. What empty sort of life have you lived, James? What cowardly existence have you doomed yourself to? What tedious cog are you in this great machine that serves the King? I am glad I never picked you. I would rather have a life of despicable criminality than you. Better to have the long drop and short stop at the end of it all, eh?" _

_The throttle of the drums grows, speeding up in their macabre march of death. And then they stop. _

_The trapdoor gives way, the snap of her neck echoing across the silent expanse of the gathered crowd. _

_Wrenching his head way from the vile sight, he throws up the contents of his breakfast, watching with distant dismay as it splatters to cobblestones at his feet. Breath coming in short spurts, he stumbles back, grasping at the wall to prevent his collapse. Suddenly, he starts at the feel of someone gripping his hand. _

"_Sorry it had to go like this, Jaime," Sparrow sadly smiles, kohl-rim eyes wide and wet as he shrugs, crossing his arms, "But I had to sacrifice 'em all to get away. World can be cruel sometimes, eh?" he nods, the beads in his hair catching the glimmering light of the bright morning sun. _

_Letting out a guttural growl, Norrington grabs the pirate by the throat, his other hand going to holster. Feeling the icy, comfortable grip of his dagger, he yanks it out of its sheath and plunges it into Sparrow's chest with a snarl. Only Jack laughs as the morbid red stain of blood explodes across the expanse of his filthy white shirt. As the Commodore unhands him, he glances with horror at the ugly space where his dagger, the same dagger he'd commissioned from Will, remains lodged in between the pirate's ribs. _

"_Of all the bloody gits in the world," Sparrow snorts even as he begins coughing up blood, collapsing back against the stone wall, "I knew you would be the one kill me," he sputters, "Just like you've killed dear Lizzie…" _

Norrington gripped the blanket as his eyes snapped open. Breath coming so quickly it threatened to overwhelm him with panic, he clutched at his hands, closing his eyes and beginning to count. He didn't stop for some time, this nightmare apparently taking more of a toll than initially thought. Finally able to stop his hands from shaking, he remained in bed, staring at the rafters of the ceiling. But it was to no avail.

"Hell on the horizon," he snorted, quickly leaping out of bed. Tossing on a shirt over his breeches, he slipped into his waistcoat. Checking the time on his pocket watch, he sighed; only a few hours until four bells or six in the morning. Glancing over to his liquor cabinet, he contemplated it for moment. _No, I really should not_. But upon closing his eyes, he recoiled, seeing her jerking body swinging from the noose-

Heading upstairs to the top deck for some fresh air, he tried to ignore the comfortable feeling of the flask in his hand.

* * *

"_Madame, Sir Ambrose Vernon…" _

"_My dear Fanny!" the man bellows, rushing into the hall past Kingsley, the butler. Raising an eyebrow, Kingsley simply nods, lip curled in derision as the man tosses his overcoat and tricorne to him. Did he not know the hall boy should have taken it, not he, the master butler? Then again, Ambrose never contained anything in the way of subtleties. Which is why he was rarely allowed into the house. Or so she had heard. But for some reason Lady Frances Rutland choose to attend to him this afternoon. _

"_Sir Ambrose," Lady Frances replies icily, hazel eyes flashing. Swiftly pushing back a streak of grey hair behind her ear, she barely gives him a curtsey of greeting. "My husband's cousin," she nods to her, she following suit with her own curtsey. _

"_Fascinating creature," Ambrose, snorts, though he takes her hand, bringing it to his lips in greeting. "Indeed," he declares. While she does not know this man, something in his air and manner immediately causes her to withdraw, an irritated expression flashing across her usually inscrutable face. _

"_Sir," she nods in reply, biting back her derision. _

"_I'm sure you have some lessons to attend to, my love," Lady Rutland continues, voice still distant, round figure unnaturally stiff. "Go upstairs to the study and call on Alice, your governess." _

_Swiftly moving to the stairs, she does as she's bid, dark blue eyes giving Ambrose another once over. She decides she does not like the man. Judging by Lady Rutland's rigid shoulders and the look of pure murder she throws his way, Lady Rutland does not care for him either, to say the least. _

"_They will be heading to the dining room most likely, miss," she hears Elaine, one of the housemaids, murmurs as she passes her on the balcony above the entranceway. "No doubt the best place to listen will be the eastern drawing room," the maid continues as she balances a basket full of sheets ready for washing. With a smile of thanks, she makes her way to the room through the back ways of the house. _

_Soon, she finds sitting in the chair by the door proves the best listening spot. Book in hand to uphold the illusion of distraction, she hears them clearly. Their conversation on the other side of the wall is rather boring though; talk of the weather, the latest news from London and so on. Until they began discussing the War of Succession. She knows Lord Rutland has been in Flanders for the last few months. His letters, while long have proven few and far between. Apparently, he is stationed quite close on the front lines. _

_Suddenly there comes a scream, followed by the rush of what sounds like silks and a loud thud upon the floor. Without thinking she runs to the doors, flinging them open to find him standing over Lady Rutland, who's collapsed. Head snapping in her direction, he smirks a bit, eyes taking her in before gesturing at the floor. Ignoring him, she scrambles to her Ladyship's side. Snapping open her fan with an efficient flick of her wrist, she begins fanning her Ladyship's unnaturally pale face and feeling her pulse, which faintly beats. _

"_What did you do?" she snaps at him, even as she pats other woman's face in an effort to wake her. No response comes. He shrugs, moving away as a few more servants rush into the room, alerted by the scream no doubt. _

"_She has fainted, take her to her room," she declares, quickly ordering the servants to undress their mistress and put in her nightclothes. Both their dinners are to be sent to their mistress' room as well. Shoving past him, she makes to head up the stairs until she yelps in annoyance, a tight grip around her arm. _

"_Be careful with how you treat guests," he hisses into her ear, breath close, fingers dancing along her sleeve. "Fortune sometimes dictates that we find ourselves at the mercy of others we have wronged." _

"_Of what do you speak?" she snorts, trying to pull away from him, her eyes following the servants as they carry Lady Frances up the stairs. _

"_A letter," he sighs, expression falling as he draws it out of his pocket, passing it to her, "For I fear I am the bearer of bad news." His unnaturally rapid change in demeanor to a contrite messenger startles her as he drops her arm. Tucking the letter into her skirts, she calls on Victor, one of the footmen. _

"_Please ensure Sir Ambrose is placed in the Blue Room. They are the best guest quarters. I'm afraid dinner is cancelled tonight, Sir Ambrose. I may have it brought to your room-" _

"_That will do, my dear." _

"_You may call me Miss Vernon," she flatly replies. "Now if you'll excuse, I must attend to-" _

"_Fanny? Please, my dear, do," he grins with an exaggerated bow. Narrowing her eyes at him, she turns on her heel, running upstairs. _

_Within the half-hour, Fanny awoke but did not take her meal, much to everyone's dismay. Her Ladyship simply sits there, eyes dimmed with tears, mouth half-open though she remains silent. Propped up her bed, her round form is slumped over as she stares at the wall in front of her. Eyes barely moving and not responding to anything, a servant is sent for the doctor down in the village. _

"_She's suffered a large shock," Doctor Phelps says, checking her pulse against his pocket watch from where he sits next to Lady Frances, who remains in bed. _

"_That much is obvious," she retorts, aggravation more the result of the situation rather than outright exasperation with him. "And?" _

"_I may only recommend that you attempt to feed her and keep her occupied to bring her out it. However, if she doesn't eat-"_

"_She'll waste away," she sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples in an attempt to relieve a suddenly oncoming headache. _

"_Do you know what caused such a reaction?" the doctor continues, packing up his gear into his worn leather bag. She helplessly shrugs in response, to which he doesn't reply. Soon, he is gone, leaving them both alone. There is nothing to do but attempt to get the Lady Rutland to eat. And pray she recovers. Suddenly remembering, her hand brushes the letter she's tucked into the pocket of her skirts… _

Christian awoke with a start, panicking at the tightness of her throat only to quickly realize the blankets of her cot had become entangled around her. Closing her eyes, she attempted to calm herself down. But she immediately found it impossible fall asleep again, the nightmare still imprinted on her mind.

"Bloody hell," she swallowed, quickly getting up and changing into her day clothes. It had become a weekly ritual, her disturbing dreams. The usual remedy was a breath of fresh air top deck, at the stern and preferably out of the watch's way. Getting out of bed, she snuck from behind the Oriental screen separating her space from Henry's in their quarters. He was still asleep, as per usual, for he never awoke as she left on these turns about the top deck. Grabbing a tattered book from the shelf next to the door, she headed upstairs.

* * *

"Not wandering at your usual spot along the bow?" she declared into the darkness behind her. Norrington froze, his steps barely creaking along the deck. Then slowly moving from the shadows, he quietly came to stop behind where she sat, cross-legged on some storage crates at the stern of the _Dauntless_.

"How were you able to hear me?" he asked aloud, despite himself.

"Observation," she shrugged. "A lot of time spent alone and one becomes use to the silence. Your movements broke said silence," she fleetingly grinned, glancing upwards at the starry sky where the moon illuminated the freshly swabbed decks.

"I see," he tartly replied, his surprise dutifully repressed. "Do you always skulk about the decks past curfew, Mr. Granner?" he intoned, causing her shoulders to stiffen.

"I apologize, Commodore, as I did not realize it proved so late," she breathed, inwardly cursing at being so stupid as to attract attention.

It was not as though she disliked him per say. It was more the Commodore reminded her of the young men she would so often dance with in Town during the season; handsome (she wasn't blind after all) and dignified, but awkwardly stiff. The sorts of dispassionate, staid, tedious men for whom there were no wholes.

These were the men who were accustomed to only two types of women in their lives; their prospective wives and the women they "entertained" while in Town. The former, somewhat like herself but far richer, were the empty society girls. Raised to do nothing but titter behind their fans and bear a future progeny for whatever young lord they proved able to entrap into a marriage that season, she'd always found them exceptionally insipid. The latter sorts of women were their complete opposites, courtesans. Witty, astoundingly beautiful creatures who contained enough education and bawdy humor to keep their clients' gifts of jewelry and a household in town going whilst away from said wives, she admittedly found them utterly fascinating. But it was all laughter and fun until their clients grew tired of them and moved on the next pretty, young strumpet.

Frankly, Christian fell into neither category. That was until her apparent inheritance of 14,000 guineas made her a society girl. But raised with the freedom and relentless pursuit of education the ever-doting Lord and Lady Rutland showered upon her, she feared marriage would trap her as the long-suffering wife of some gentrified, buttoned-up, big wig.

James Norrington reminded her far too much of those sorts of men. And so she was cautious around the Commodore and those like him.

_And why am I musing on the sort of a marriage prospect the he would prove anyway? _

"The curfew is intended for those of the crew," he repeated, bringing her out of her thoughts, "And since you are Dr. McCarnelly's assistant, you are not crew. I suggest you stay those paranoid thoughts currently floating around in your head…drink?" he all but ordered, even as a fine silver flask appeared in front of her nose. She also noticed that he took a seat next to her.

"No…yes," she replied, taking it from him as an image of her dream suddenly flashed in front of her eyes. Setting aside any sense of embarrassment, she drank directly from the flask. Sputtering, she coughed up more of the gin than swallowed down. "Ugh," she choked in distaste as he arched a brow at her reaction. It was not cruel though. _Amused?_ she distantly thought. "Celebrating another loss to Sparrow?" she croaked with irritation, her throat still burning.

"You forget yourself, Mr. Granner," Norrington intoned, voice suddenly dull.

"Forgive me," she nodded, eyes wide her own words, voice low and regretful. "Just making another observation." she glanced back at him, "I meant no insult."

"I see," he sharply retorted, taking the flask back from her and taking a long swig. Glancing over, she was surprised to fine he remained in just his shirt and waistcoat. And though he had on his hat, he was wigless, dark hair loosely tied back. _So much better without the wig, _she mused. _And so they are green_, she thought as well, glancing at his eyes, emerald reflected in the cloudless moonlight.

_Silly girl_, _stop it!_

"Hmm?" she repeated, his words drawing her out of her thoughts.

"You were asking me a question, as I thought myself clever to sneak around you in your usual skulking about."

"I simply asked that it was odd you were not wandering along the bow, as is your usual route," she quietly replied, shifting so that she sat with her legs dangling off the crate. He gave her a sideways glance as he took another sip of gin. "Especially with the loss of Sparrow this morning."

"You're quite the inquisitive young man, Mr. Granner-"

"Forgive that I asked," she said, moving to get up until he grabbed her by the wrist. Startled at his grip, she looked back, equally startled by the distant expression of desperation in his eyes.

"I did not say I wouldn't answer the question," he began, quickly unhanding her as he gave a surprised, if fleeting grin. _He looks almost a different person_, _when he smiles._ _Should do it more often_. "Catching Sparrow is my duty," he distantly continued, bringing her thoughts back to the present. "I simply take it seriously. And when completing my duty doesn't occur-"

"You wander along the decks," she finished.

"Only because of what I dream," he sighed as she gave him an inquisitive expression. "_That, if then I had waked after a long sleep, will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming, the clouds, me thought, would open and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked I cried to dream again-" _

"_The Tempest_," she intoned.

"Except I _do_ wake and _do not_ cry to dream again," he snorted.

"As do I," she whispered. "_We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep_, unfortunately."

"So says Prospero of said_ Tempest_," he replied with an arched brow. "And such is why you wander along the stern almost nightly," he grimly grinned as she let out a sharp exhalation of surprise that he knew of her nocturnal activities. "This is my ship, Mr. Granner," he proudly said, squaring his shoulders. "I know everything that occurs on her, even if I don't choose directly comment on it." She stiffened, sliding away from him and hoping, nay _praying _he knew nothing of her secret.

"Your family must be proud of you," she quietly said, swallowing down the strangled tone of her voice, "Considering this your ship and you are so young."

"Aye," he smiled, this time it going to his eyes for attractive effect as she immediately noticed. Shaking her head to rid herself of the observation, she shrugged and signaled for him to continue. "My father especially," he declared, taking another sip, "As an admiral, he was rather delighted I chose this path of my own accord."

"So you are of a military family?"

"Yes. My grandshire was a lieutenant to King Charles II. Helped him escape to France after the revolution. At the Restoration, my grandshire was showered with a the king's friendship, a title, gifts and a rather healthy grant of land in England for his services. Built the estate I grew up on from his military service. And so here I am now, at sea."

"I see," she nodded, surprised this free flow of information.

"You are not crew, and so I am not technically your superior. Hence this little discussion between us is between relative equals," he sniffed, answering her silent surprise. "And I am giving you the benefit of the doubt that it shall not be shared with anyone else," he quickly muttered.

"I ere on the side of discretion for my own reasons, sir."

"Spoken like a true gentlemen," he mused aloud. "In fact your manners are surprisingly gentleman-like, Mr. Granner, right down to your reading habits," he grinned, that odd fleeting expression catching her off guard once again as he glanced down at her book. She froze at his declaration, the warning bells going off in her head. _He's not stupid…he can observe just as you can…_"And what are you reading?" he asked, reaching out and taking the book from her hands before she could properly react.

"The _Fairie Queen_," she defensively retorted.

"_Her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place,_" he reeled off in subdued, almost melodic tones before quickly passing the book back to her. "I once dreamed I would find a woman that I may worship so," he distantly continued. "Quite florid reading for a simple surgeons' assistant. You are quite educated for being a mere street urchin," he said more loudly, taking another drink as he stared at her. She blanched at his observation, breathing a sigh of relief when four bells rings out.

"I must go," she flatly replied, leaping down from the crates. "I need my sleep," she quickly added, taking the book with her.

"So soon?" he frowned.

"Yes," she all but stammered. "Good night, Commodore...sir."

"Mr. Granner," he said, touching his hat in goodbye. As she scampered off below decks, he was left to think on the rather oddly astute nature of his surgeon's supposedly simple assistant. Especially on the nagging in his gut that something was quite amiss with that one.


	7. To Dance With the Devil

Barbossa awoke with a start, yanking his hat from over his face. Freezing, he strained to hear the footsteps in his room.

"I thought ye be wantin' something to keep busy," came the whispered voice somewhere just above his ear.

"Witch," he rolled his eyes, sitting up his elbows. Eyes shining in the dim moonlight coming from the small round window above his head, she gave him a feral grin from where she stood next to the bed. "Don't cha ever sleep?" he snapped.

"Here be some charts and such," she smoothly continued, ignoring his question. Quickly setting an armful of parchments on the small table opposite his bed against the bed, she hissed, "As well as some instruments for ya next journey-"

"Aye?"

"I'll tell ya more when it occurs, but," she frowned, stopping to sniff the air, "That day not be coming for a while-" She suddenly stopped, eying a large, silver flat-bottomed bowl sitting on the floor next to his bed. It was filled with murky deep blue water that slowly swirled about as though the center of a slow whirlpool. Bubbling despite that the bowl sat still, the water began to steam as Tia's gaze widened. Suddenly without warning, she yanked the covers back. Snatching him by his arm with her unnaturally strong grip, she effectively dragged him out of bed.

"Ye be dippin' into ma potions?!" she screeched, eyes flashing with rage as she bared her teeth.

Barbossa stumbled forward, cursing as he tried to wrench his arm out of her grip. But it was to no avail as she yanked him downstairs. Cursing even more as his foot fell through one of the rotting stairs, he held back a yelp of pain as his bare foot became covered with splinters from the rotting wood. All but throwing him into a chair, she muttered something in a foreign language. He tried to jump to his feet only to bellow as he found himself stuck fast to his seat. Slamming his hands down on the table, he cocked his hat to side, glaring up at where she scrambled too and fro in front of the stove.

As she passed her hand over the metal grate, the flame licked up and ignited the darkened kitchen. It then suddenly exploded upwards, a fiery column of green as she tossed a handful of dried leaves into it. Roaring against the ceiling, it didn't burn a thing despite the strength of the flame. Gripping a wooden goblet, she thrust her hands into the flame, chanting all the while. And suddenly the fire faded to yellow, though she still held her hand within it. Barbossa remained speechless in his chair, glaring at her with a jaundiced eye. Especially as she silently stepped back from the flame, completely unharmed. Passing her hand over the stove once more, it went dark as a burst of wind swept through the house. And then the wooden goblet appeared in front of him.

"Drink!"

"Ha!" he snarled.

"I'll jinx ye!"

"Ya wouldn't dare!"

"Hector Alejandro Barbossa!" she hissed, stomping her foot and causing the whole floor to tremor. His eyes widened though his snarl remained firmly in place, even as she snapped, "Ya may choose not to drink it, but there be other ways to compel ye!" His curled his lip with derision, crossing his arms as he narrowed his eyes. "It be ye death if ya don't drink!" she snapped, "And ya do not want to be going to ya grave again, do ye?" He remained silent, glancing between her and the goblet. Finally with a growl, he yanked the cup off the table and downed its contents in one swift motion.

"Buggery!" he choked as the thick, vile, green concoction slid down his throat. Suddenly he collapsed, head hitting the table as his shoulders begin to shake. However, he remained glued to the chair as the goblet crashed to floor from his spasming fingers. Then hurled upwards, his back was forced rigid against the chair as his eyes widened with pain. He vainly attempted to draw breath, only to find the sensation of water filling his lungs and suffocation gripping his chest.

He felt her lips on his in a savage kiss as she pinched his nose and inhaled, literally stealing the breath from his lungs. Leaving him gasping, she blew the breath from her mouth; a hazy green mist floated from her lips, shimmering in the air as it slowly formed into a transparent green shadow. It was her own silhouette, except larger and far more malevolent. As she tossed out commands in her language, the image grew in size until it filled the room. Then with a loud hiss, it faded to yellow and collapsed into itself. The strong scent of the salty, churning sea descended upon them, almost sickening with its intensity. But Tia ignored it, as within moments the shadow dissipated, helped along by yet another cool breeze that blew through the kitchen as a result of a sudden furious gesture of her hands.

Demurely taking a seat in a chair across from him, she grinned as Barbossa shook and struggled to regain his breath.

"Ye took ye essence…from me?" he gurgled, gasping and eyes wide with question, if not a bit of fear.

"And how do ye be knowin' what I just done?"

"Me mum," came the derisive explanation.

"Well, that's what ya get for dippin' in my potions, ya bastard," she cackled. "Ya should know better, Hector. Did ya ever put ya hands on ye mother's things?!"

"Aye!" he snarled, rubbing at the dull but receding pain his chest.

"Then she must've allowed ya to do so," she thoughtfully replied. "Probably cast her protective spell on ya since ya shared the same blood. It ain't the same here and ya cannot be touching my things, boy," she sighed. "'Tis how my type protect our things; any who touch 'em without permissions take in our essence. And it poisons 'em something fierce 'til it kills 'em quick."

"I see," he retorted with a wide eye, the other narrowed with disbelief.

As he struggled to steady his breathing, she continued to stare at him. Dark eyes flitting over him in predatory appraisal, she shook her head in disagreement as she began again. "Do ya wish to be taught in my ways, Hector?" she sniffed, glaring at him.

"I already know-"

She cut him off with a harsh laugh and expedient flick of her wrist as she waved a hand in dismissal. "Ya don't know much obviously," she grinned, "Especially if ye be trying to conjure a water mirror with the moon only a quarter-out. Any daft one knows ya need at least a half-moon. Then consider ya was killed by that Aztec curse. Ya may have been able to outrun Jack, but your use of the witches' ways have always been flawed for some time, boy."

"Couldn't wait," he muttered, glancing away. "Need to find the _Pearl_."

Jumping up from her seat, she unglued him from his with a muttering and flick of her fingers. "Lessons start tomorrow. Early. I be teaching ya the ways of the wind, 'tis all." Barbossa was bewildered at the offer until she continued.

"This ain't for ya benefit, it be for me. Ya gonna be goin' on a long journey to get my piece 'o eight back from Jack. And I do not be wantin' any delays. If ye get a handle on the wind, you go faster. And the faster I get my piece, the faster I be free!" Placing her hands on her hips, she rocked back on her heels as though in quick contemplation. "And so it all be coming' back to benefit Tia Dalma!" she cackled as she suddenly spun around and headed out the kitchen. Snapping for him to do the same, Barbossa was left speechless, though he failed to stop the grin that flashed across his face.

He'd always admired one cunning enough to outsmart him. 'Specially a woman. For there were few who'd done so that lived to tell the tale.

* * *

Ana Maria let out a heavy sigh as a gust of wind battered the rain-soaked deck of the _Black Pearl_. Sniffing the air of the storm, she yelled across to the bow, giving orders for Cotton to take the wheel. As he did, she speedily made her way below decks to the captain's quarters. Not bothering to knock, she flung open the door. Jack stood behind his desk, instruments strewn about it and charts spread out beneath him. He lazily waved her in, only looking up when she refused his offered bottle of rum.

"Tia's up to somethin' Jack."

"How do ya kn-"

"An apprentice always knows when the mistress changes the wind's direction," she retorted, taking a seat in the ornately carved chair in front of the desk. Glancing at the window, she nodded as the rain continued to beat down.

"_Former_ mistress," Jack grinned, knocking back another draught of rum.

"Don't matter," Ana Maria replied with a raised brow. "Our essence be linked 'til she get her freedom. 'Tis how I be knowin' she took on a new apprentice. Or something of that sort."

"Can ya use ye Devil's Mirror?"

"Ya know I don't be colluding with Tia without permissions. Ain't respectful," she ordered. "I don't be spyin' on her and she don't be spying on me…unless I happen to be wandering across your path when she be spyin' on you," she chided. "'Sides, I'm all worn out from spying on your commodore. It ain't easy and he's strong, that one. So it be hard to hunt down his essence using me water mirror. Though," she smirked.

"Aye?"

"He been getting weaker, yer bluecoat. Something's clouding his mind, spilling over into his soul. He ain't in a good way. And it be getting worse on the daily. Shuts down his defenses and whatnot, so he a bit easier to find."

"'Tis love that done 'im in, poor Jaime," Jack frowned.

"Ain't love that be choking 'im," she nodded in disagreement, "At least not the sort that gets your heart to soaring. If it were, then trackin' him through the mirror would be prove terrible hard. No, something else be slowly strangling him. And I think you know what that be," she quietly replied, staring at him. Jack only shrugged in reply, though he averted his eyes as he took a long drink. Suddenly she was on her feet. Arms crossed, she scowled at him across the desk.

"Don't be playing lightly with what we be dabbling in, Jack," she hissed. "I know ya love the _Pearl_ and the ocean she be sailin' on. But we messin' with a man's life here."

"Surely, you don't care about Jaime and 'is bluecoat friends?" he ferociously grinned, golden smile bright in the lantern light. She almost smiled back before catching herself.

"They could fall off the face 'o the earth tomorrow, for all I care," she snapped as she settled back into her seat and casually threw her feet upon his desk. "But I can't be using what Tia taught me to permanently do harm. Just ain't right in the way 'o the universe, aye?"

"I get what ya sayin'-"

"Do ye, Jack?"

"Aye."

"Come now," she smirked, dark eyes flitting over him in barely concealed annoyance, "I don't think ya do. The only person Jack be carin' for is, well, _Jack_."

"Oh, come now, love-"

"Don't be givin' me that puppy dog look. I ain't one of ya wenches, so it don't be workin' on me."

"Anna Maria," he sighed, getting his feet and coming to stand behind her. Rolling her eyes, she attempted to shrug him off as he crouched behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. "I ain't never seen one so pretty with gifts so deadly."

"Jack-"

"And ye be a right furious maid with the sword and whatever else crosses those lovely hands of yours," he murmured into her ear. She bit back the grin that threatened to come to her face, even as she rolled her eyes again. "So all I be saying, my sweet siren 'o the sea-"

"_Jack-" _she squirmed, his breath tickling ear.

"Just give me more time," he soothed. "Anna _Maria-_"

"If your lips touch me, _Cap'n_ Sparrow," she smoothly replied despite the appearance of her dagger inexplicably close to his neck as she speedily reached behind herself, "I'll slice 'em off, savvy?"

"_Savvy_," he shrugged with a chuckle, backing off as she leapt to her feet. Sheathing her weapon as he nodded with appreciation, he settled back behind his desk. "So, madam-"

"I ain't no lady, so let's not be fooling ourselves."

"As I was saying," he lazily waved, "I figure the first question is, how long can ya keep using your Devil's Mirror?"

"Until we're sufficiently far enough away the Commodore where I can't be trackin' him no more. Then we've escaped. But like I said, he be getting weaker."

"So with that apparent conscience of yours," he snorted, "How long will that be?"

"No more than a month or so, if I keep using the mirror on the daily. I ain't going to leave him out of his mind from loosin' his essence Jack," she crossed her arms. "Like I said-"

"It ain't right with the supposed universe, I _know_," he sniffed in faux-offense. Inspecting his fingernails, he suddenly smiled, eyes glittering. "Beautiful, deadly _and_ with a soul? What ever did I do to deserve ya, love?"

"Certain debts can never be repaid," she quietly retorted, gaze darting away from his.

"Even if I said they've been repaid twice over?"

"Aye," she solemnly intoned. "You know I be true. And that's all ye need to be knowin.'"

"Anything else, m'dear?"

"We approaching a bit 'o a storm." Her tone was back to it's usual one of distant pragmitism. "I reckon we'll be through it in a day or two. After that, we should stop at St. Helena Island for a bit 'o a rest. Then we can sail up the Africa Coast to Turkey for yer key. The reef along the coast will be a hard bit to navigate-"

"But I'm the best there be," Jack declared, waving his hands about. "Now be off with ye."

"Not quite," she rejoined. "There be a ship tailing us for the last few hours and she be flying French colors."

"Come again?" he frowned.

"She ain't attacked yet, so I'm assumin' she be a privateer. Though she awful large. If we meet her in a fight, we'll barely get away."

"Or it could be Jaime flying the wrong colors-"

"Nay, it ain't a first-rate ship," she mused aloud. "More one of them older galleons. We can outrun 'em for sure though."

"One would hope so, darlin'," he chuckled as he quickly shrugged into his dark overcoat, the deep cuffs trailing to his fingertips. Pulling his hat down to his eyes to shield against the rain, he raced to the top deck, Anna Maria behind him every step of the way.

"She don't have much crew," Jack distantly said, taking them in through his spyglass as the crew of the other ship wandered to and fro on the deck. "Uniforms seem a bit odd," he continued, noting that none of them quite matched. It made no sense for the ever rigid Royal Navy. Even the French Navy, _La Royale_, had the discipline for general uniformity. Not to mention the Demi-culverin near the bow on the starboard and the rather advanced rigging systems weren't the usual sorts of thing for a galleon. Then again, there was the ongoing the War of Succession. The Frogs could've shifted their operations to the Caribbean, building new ships and so forth.

The other ship flew white sails emblazoned with a deep gold fleur-de-lis. The French flag of gold fleur-de-lis upon a royal blue background was visible as well, flapping in the rainy wind along the top sail.

"Take a look," Jack implored, passing off the spyglass to Anna Maria. Suddenly she started laughing, passing it back to him.

"Ain't no worries!" she chuckled, "We may want to signal 'em and let 'em onboard for a nice little chat of catchin' up."

"Come again, love?"

"That be Maye and Muse, the Scarlett Twins. And it looks like they got themselves a right nice bit 'o ship."

"We have company mates!" Skittering from the stern, he bellowed, "Signal flags 'long the portside, Mr. Gibbs!"

"As for your cabin?" Anna Maria nodded.

"Set up the finest we got in silverware and whatnot," Jack replied, clapping his hands together with barely contained glee and waggling his brows. "I got a couple of kids that need entertaining...and I've got me an idea."

* * *

"Quite the set-up you have here, Jackie Boy," Maye Scarlett lilted with her surprisingly educated accent. Her icy blue eyes took in the dining section of the captain's quarters as she ambled in, as it was decadently decorated. Heavy Persian rugs covered every inch of the floor, the dark wooden walls hung with various stolen artwork. Upon the black wooden dining room table sat a mishmash of fine, stolen dinnerware. A vast array of bits of silverware were neatly prepared as well, various silver, gold and jewel-encrusted goblets at each place setting. Above the table hung four, mismatched but intricately carved silver lamps, their bright glow illuminating the expanse of the room with an energetic glow. "Looks like you've been keeping him on track, Anna Maria," she continued. Pausing to kiss the dark-skinned woman on each cheek in greeting. She smiled as Anna Maria returned the gesture.

"You're looking like the seas been treatin' ya well, Maye," Anna Maria nodded.

"Eh," came the measured reply. "The world be gettin' smaller, I fear," she waved as she took a seat at the dining room table, following Anna Maria's lead.

"We almost got blasted outta the water a few weeks back," Muse continued, finishing his sister's sentence as he glanced at her with worry. "The ship'd been tailing us for some days."

Muse was solidly built, his sister quite shorter and more roundly athletic. Both shared flaming red hair streaked with gold highlights of the harsh sun, it offset by pale, freckled skin (though Muse proved ruddier). They also share matching blue eyes set deep in round faces.

Both were dressed in the way of a buccaneer, clothes fine and expensive; baggy pants, shiny boots and loose, flowing tunics. A deep cuffed overcoat was tossed on over that. Muse's eyes were rimmed in kohl, hiding his red lashes. Maye' face was powered, her lips painted red and red lashes lined in gold. Both also carried a cutlass, holsters crossing their chests. Muse had a small gold and silver ring in his left ear while his sister wore no jewelry, save a thin gold necklace that disappeared into her shirt. While Muse's hair hit his shoulders, thick, shaggy and tied back into a messy ponytail, Maye's hair was braided back in a complex bun, her simple black tricorne perched at jaunty angle on her head. Though not the handsomest pair, they proved charming with a certain calm flair about them. Ways younger than Jack but older than Anna Maria, their searching eyes betrayed a rough maturity.

It was highly doubtful the Scarlett surname was actually theirs. But it fit them to a tee on account of their hair.

"Some ship flying some odd flag," Muse continued, taking a seat across from his sister and next to Anna Maria.

"What, with a complicated cross, I think an 'I,' and 'E' upon it," Maye archly declared.

"Upon a pure white banner-"

"And don't forget the Triple 'X' formin' the cross, Muse."

"We ain't never seen a banner that looks that-"

"And the men aboard was wearing what looked to be some new version of them English naval uniforms-"

"But wasn't no English flag in sight," Muse finished, "Oddest thing."

"East India Company," Jack and Anna Maria muttered together. While Jack's eyes were wide with surprise, a curious expression crossing his face, Anna Maria snarled, lip curled with barely contained rage.

"Those no-good-"

"Bastards," Jack replied, finishing Anna Maria's words. Setting the food on the table from a tray near the door, Jack took a seat. And the group began play catch-up.

"I cannot believe you escaped from _Norrington_," Muse replied with bewilderment to the tale some hours later. "I mean…how?"

"Oh, it was quite the feat," Jack grinned, leaning back his chair and inspecting his nails. "Fact, I think that makes me the only pirate to escape the great Jaime."

"Unbelievable," Maye cackled, "No wonder he's hounding you something fierce."

"So the Bloody _Royal Navy_ be on your arse," Muse snorted, slapping the table with his hand as he let out raucous laughter.

"-And you want _us _to help _you?_" Maye twittered, completing her brother's sentence again. "Oh, dear Jackie Boy, you prove quite _amusing._" Jack's eyes went wide as he felt her fingers walking up his thigh. Anna Maria remained silent, though she quirked a brow.

"At least I'm askin'" he retorted. "So are ya in or out?"

"Of course. We just need payment-"

"We got plenty," Anna Maria quickly said, giving Jack a sideways glance as he opened his mouth in retort.

"Oh, I'm quite positive you have plenty in stolen goods. But," Maye winked, "But I meant payment of a different _sort_," she drawled at Jack.

"I'm offended I be holdin' no interest," Anna Maria huffed with supposed annoyance.

"Oh, no one's forgotten you, my dear," Muse replied, taking her hand and blessing it with kiss. "It's simply been a while since old Maye's had a tumble," he winced

"Aye, it has, _Jack_. Now, my dear boy, what be your plan of diversion?"

"That's just it, darlin'," Jack slowly replied as he gave Maye and appreciative once over, "A diversion. Figure with that galleon you two saw fit to steal from the French, you could put on a pursuit of Jamie."

The twins suddenly glanced at each other, a frown coming to both their faces as they blushed with surprise. Maye immediately withdrew, crossing her arms as Muse cleared his throat. Anna Maria looked between both of them in genuine surprise.

"You want us to go after a first-rate ship of his majesty's navy?" Muse swallowed. "I mean, we got a French galleon, so we be fast no doubt-"

"But the guns on that navy thing will blow us clear outta the water," Maye retorted. "Not to mention, this be _Norrington_ you're talkin' about. Newly made _Commodore_ Norrington. One of the youngest commodores in their bloody naval history, may I be remindin' you."

"He's a right force to be reckoned with."

"In other words, that little march up the 'ole naval ladder 'twas gained by skill and cunning-"

"To which we've lost many a mate," Muse galled.

"Come now, I trust ya both," Jack implored, putting on the most charming smile he could manage. However, they still shook their heads in dismay.

"I'll conjure up somethin' to help ye both," Anna Maria speedily added. "Trust me, once ya get what I give ya, you'll be able to outrun 'em like we have." Muse closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose as Maye worried her lip. "And we'll give you half of our loot."

"Now wait one _bloody minute!_" Jack bellowed, cutting her of and jumping to his feet.

"Done!" the twins uttered in unison, an identical smirk coming to their faces.

"_Not_ done!" Jack snapped, waving his arms around in horror. "Anna Maria, a moment, _if you may?!_" he declared, giving her a sharp nod. "Pardon us, mates," he bowed to the twins, grinning tightly. As the two disappeared up to the deck, the twins shrugged as they went back to their meal.

Within a half-hour, Jack and Anna Maria reappeared. And the pleased smile upon Anna Maria's face did not match the harried expression upon Jack's. "It's a deal," the captain muttered, "Half our loot for keepin' me Jaime busy.

"Excellent," Muse beamed, reaching out and shaking Jack's hand. Rolling his eyes, Jack gingerly returned the gesture before heading over the cabinet and bringing out some bottles of rum.

"Now that it's all settled, drink up, mates," he sighed, "It's going to be a long night, I'm sure."

* * *

Waking, Anna Maria quickly attempted to leave her bed only to find a protective arm draped across her. Glancing behind to where Muse slept next her, she grinned with satisfaction. Rolling over, she took in the sight of him, her appreciative gaze sweeping over his sleeping form. Suddenly the bells rung out, signaling the late morning hour. With a sigh, she sat up and tried to make her way out of bed, only to be startled by his hand upon her arm.

"Come now, darlin', no need to abscond." Sleepy, soft blue eyes met bright deep brown.

"Got work to do," she grinned, easily moving out of his grasp. Taking the sheet with her, she quickly wrapped herself in it.

"Fine," he groaned, swiftly sitting up on his elbows. Blinking against the sun streaming down from the window, he ran a hand through his messy hair as she stretched for a bit. Suddenly pulling her to him for a lingering kiss, he grinned against her mouth. "Lovely," he declared.

"Likewise," she chuckled, mouth dancing along his cheek before speedily withdrawing. "It be pretty late," she continued as she quickly dressed, "I assume you'll want to get movin'."

"Aye," he drawled, jumping out bed.

As Anna Maria left her quarters within the hour, she almost ran into Maye, who was wandering down the hallway.

"I see you're brokered Jack's deal?"

"Likewise?" Maye replied, glancing behind to Anna Maria's quarters where Muse exited and gave them both a lazy wave before spinning on his heel in the direction of the galley. "I don't blame ye, as Muse can be quite convincing."

"You're assumin' I needed convincing," Anna Maria smiled as the other woman chuckled.

"Aye," Maye retorted. Anna Maria looked back down the hallway to Jack's quarters before taking in the heavy canvas bag slung over Maye's shoulder. Especially the way it clanked with each movement.

"Ain't none of my business what ye be up to with Jack," she coughed, causing Maye to laugh aloud, "But in the meantime, I'm assuming y'all will be gettin' on your way? What's your bearing after ya give chase of the _Dauntless _for a bit?"

"Venice. We been at sea for a bit and we're looking to rest up," Maye replied, following Anna Maria to the upper deck. "Not to mention we got quite a few things to fence. The bloody frogs are sending out ships full of bullion to fund this little war that be going on. They're all ripe for taking, which is how we stole our new ship_, __La Dame Aimable_. It was quite easy after that. Just fly our French colors, feign a bit 'o distress, and the warships come to you. I be playingthe role of the damsel in distress and they send over their officers to assist. We take 'em hostage, demand ransom and disable their ship with some crew in a couple of longboats as they pay it. That way, we get away without firin' a shot...ideally."

"So ye be privateers now?" Anna Maria frowned.

"Nay, we be pirates with forged Letters 'o Marque," Maye said in all seriousness. "That way, we don't owe his majesty nothin' unless the bluecoats stumble onto us."

"So why ya be headin' to Venice when you can keep up yer racket?"

"Blasted East India outfit. Apparently, the Letters 'o Marque don't cut it anymore. Some bullocks about how they have to be Company papers," Maye sighed, gaze becoming clouded with worry. It was enough to give Anna Maria pause until her friend continued. "Least that's what one of them company officers said when their crew boarded us back 'bout a month ago. Since it was our first warning," she swallowed, "They took _all_ our cargo as a 'payment.' Said next time they come upon us and we don't have their Letters, they'll sink us and bring us to trial for bein' pirates. Not that we ain't-"

"But the papers be supposin' to prevent that," Anna Maria nodded, crossing her arms with disbelief as they marched up the steps to the upper deck. A light rain still fell on the deck and they sky was overcast. But both were used to such, ignoring it as they made their way to the rails

"Exactly." Nodding to the rest of crew of _La Dame Aimable_ who came aboard the _Black Pearl_ with them last night, Maye watched as they loaded the rest of the agreed-upon loot into their longboat. "And so this company thinks it's better than the King's forged stamp," she finished.

"Dithering dogs," Anna Maria spat before making the sign of the cross for protection

Well," Maye continued as the last of the cargo was loaded onto their longboat, "Thanks for the hospitality. Godspeed to ya both." With that, she kissed Anna Maria on each cheek as Muse ambled up behind them, saying his goodbyes as well. Eyes meeting Anna Maria's, he gave a low bow before kissing her palm.

"As per usual, I shall never forget you," he declared, "You be a star of the sky, m'dear."

"Oh, stop with yer fancy language, as I ain't no lady, Muse," Anna Maria disavowed, though her hand remained in his.

"In my eyes, love, you shall always be," he chuckled, squeezing her hand before withdrawing. "Until we meet again, may the wind stay at yer backs."

"Likewise, mate," Jack grinned touching his hat in goodbye. Staring out over the starboard of the _Black Pearl_, Anna Maria gave a respectful nod to the twins as they rowed back to _La Dame Aimable_.

"Ya think they'll be able to hold off that bluecoat?" she asked after some time, voice hard yet tinged with genuine doubt.

"Well, they dipped into our coffers enough to say they will," Jack carelessly retorted as he headed back to wheel, Anna Maria following in his wake. "Well, the coffers they knew about," he smiled. "Got away with a lot less than they think-"

"You ain't answered the question, Jack."

"Eh, they one of the best. Outside 'o me, 'course."

"So?"

"They'll survive. What else you be wantin' me to say, love?" She remained silent, contemplating _La Dame Aimable_ as she made her way in the opposite direction from their heading, due southwest.

"Jack?"

"Aye?"

"Ya ain't just sent 'em to the noose have ya?"

Anna Maria was met by heavy silence, telling her all she needed to know. And within an hour, _La Dame Aimable_ disappeared from horizon at the _Black Pearl's _stern.


	8. The Crew

Life aboard the_ Dauntless_ was hard. Harder than Christian ever imagined. Shifting between the abject boredom of the scheduled days to the sickening excitement of the assisting of mending broken bodies as Henry's apprentice, there was no middle ground of genteel life on the vessel. For the last month or so, she spent her days in either Henry's quarters, the medical rooms far below decks or on top deck in some out-the-way place hidden in the deep corners of the ship. When not drowning in her usual duties, she perused the books of the doctor's surprisingly extensive library. As such, she was relatively sheltered from the goings on in the lower decks.

However, none of it detracted from a general sense of thinly veiled barbarism that permeated the vessel. The only thing keeping the monster of conflict in check among the men cramped within the ship was the enigmatic Commodore James Norrington. And since she'd never yearned for excitement back in England, perfectly content to fill her days with the vain pursuits of living among country society, she made it a point to avoid most people. Especially in relation to her interactions with the cabin boys and younger non-commissioned officers. As the doctor's assistant, neither the doctor nor herself were technically part of his majesty's navy. They reported the medical board in London rather than military oversight. Hence, the crew's general disregard of them both. Thankfully, it gave her an excuse to appear distant without arousing too much suspicion

Which was why she was completely surprised on some random late afternoon when one of the cabin boys ambles over to her hidden spot on at the stern of the ship. Just below the far riggings near the officers' quarters, she immediately observed almost all of the common sailors avoided the area. And so she took it as her own.

"Eh, so you can read boy, yeah?" the cabin boy rumbled. Tanned skin shiny with sweat, his blonde hair was tied back, long bangs matted down to his round face. His dark eyes blinked slowly, as though analyzing his own question. He was a tall, burly boy. Not old enough to grow a full beard, but large enough to look a man if she didn't know better. Startled, she looked up, eyes slanted with confusion. And a healthy tinge of suspicion, as she viewed all things onboard.

"Aye," she quietly retorted, slamming the medical book closed and abandoning her readings on the modern practices of apothecaries.

"Lucky," he declarted, clumsily leaning against the rigging and crossing his arms, "I cannot."

"Sorry?" she swallowed, quickly getting to her feet and trying to her surprise. In old life, reading was one of the main pursuits of most everyone she knew. Though she was relatively tall for woman, he still proved at least a full head taller. "I, ehrm-"

"No need to apologize, young sir."

"No need to call me 'young sir,' sir."

"Likewise," he replied with a toothy grin, "Though I may call you by your name, Mr-?"

"Granner," she replied. Stopping herself before she curtsied out of habit, she gave a slight bow of greeting. "Christian Granner."

"Clemson. Jacques Clemson," he nodded.

"French?" she replied with astonishment

"Aye, at least me mother was. Hence my Christian name. Father was Welsh, and so there's my last name. Both dead, so it doesn't really matter much, now don't it?" he flatly said in his unusual clipped accent, constantly rolling his "Rs".

"I'm sorry," she uncomfortably replied.

"Again, no need to apologize," he shrugged, "Barely knew 'em anyway. Just wanted to get the name of the gent who saved me broken leg when I fell from the riggin' a fortnight ago," he said. His grin was almost a smile this time as he quickly lifted up his pant leg to show her his wrapped injury. "Helped set the bone 'n everything. The former assistant would've killed me," he sniffed. "And besides, us lower crew 'ave been wondering who ye were. Pretty mute you are, boy."

"It was the more doctor's doing on your leg more than my own," she replied, face red with embarrassment, "And none of you speak to me, so why bother?"

"Still," he gurgled with a laugh, causing her to arch a surprised brow, "You didn't panic when I came in screamin' like a newborn with me leg. And you insisted I stay in the medical ward for a fortnight. Former assistant would just send us to our certain deaths to hobble around the ship and such. Appreciatin' yer oversight. And we don't talk to you because _you_ don't talk to _us_," he pointedly continued, to which she frowned. "Which is why they sent me. We're having a game of dice around the 10th hour after the bloody officers turn in. You seem like a smart 'un, so you should join us. And if you don't," he snorted, seeing her open her mouth to disagree, "Least do it as a favor of thanks to me. We'll be on the third deck, near the quarter-deck. I'll fetch you from 'ere at 10. See you then." He quickly turned around and shuffled away, favoring his right leg.

Closing her eyes and slumping back down to her seat, she let out a heavy sigh. If she didn't go, he'd most likely take it as a personal affront. She certainly didn't want to make enemies of such a stocky lad. But if she did go and the whole company was caught, she knew gambling was punishable by lashing. And while she doubted she'd be punished in such a way since she wasn't crew, there were no guarantees.

Looks like she'd have to be back here at 10 o'clock.

Surprisingly a few hours later, Jacques was there on time. Immediately taking her by the arm, he all but dragged her below decks.

"And what proves the rush, Mr. Clemson?" she nervously laughed, trying to keep her voice calm and uninterested despite his aching grip on her arm.

"Eh, don't wish to be caught," he called out, through she swore she heard laughter in his voice. Adjusting her tricorne as best she could and ducking to avoid bashing her head into the doorway leading downstairs, she bit her tongue at a retort.

Without warning, she was yanked into a wall. Shoved against it face first, she was forced to quickly turn her head so that the doorjamb connected with her cheek rather than breaking her nose. Her hands quickly bound behind her, a blindfold was whipped over her eyes. Feeling numerous hands on her arms and hearing a rumble of particularly crude laughter as she stumbled forward, she stifled back a scream. Especially when bodily lifted and dumped into a chair. Suppressing a yelp as her bottom connected with the rough wooden seat, she heard something flick open beneath her nose. Starting to cough as a sickening sweet smell suddenly filled her nostrils, she gagged at the intensity of it.

"That's it lad," a smooth, dark, unusually cultured voice said just to her right. She snapped her head in its direction, which only caused to him to laugh. "Smell up," he spitefully continued. Holding her breath for as long as she could, she let out a large gasp. Inhaling, her lungs felt as though on fire as the sweet smell again invaded her senses. Head spinning, she tried to kick away hands tying her legs to the chair. But it was to no avail. Giving one final snort, her head lolled back as the grasp of sleep descended upon her, black and languid.

* * *

Gagging as the water gushed over her head, salty and freezing, she inhaled deeply, coughing again as a second wave of water hit her. Groaning at wave of dizziness, she took a deep breath against the pounding headache knocking about her head and the queasiness in her stomach that threatened to come up in a most unbecoming manner.

"What the bloody _hell?!_" she sputtered as the blindfold is whipped off her. "Son of a bitch!" she yelled as a wooden stick snapped over her knuckles. Mortified by her language despite her ire, she snapped her mouth shut, almost biting her tongue. Her hands were tied in front of her, her feet tied to the chair as well. Her torso was also now bound to the chair, ropes crisscrossing her chest. There was absolutely chance for escape. _Oh dear God, have they found out…?!_

"No speaking unless spoken to!" a nasally voice rung out from her left. Eyes adjusting to the dim light, she saw a cabin boy of approximately eleven sitting on a top hammock, his skinny pale legs dangling over the edge of it. "Rule number one!" he continued with a snicker.

Letting out a derisive snort, she continued to glance around the room. The view caused her to frown. She was in the middle of what she assumed were the cabin boys' quarters, judging by hammocks lining the walls, three to a post. It was an expansive space as far as she could tell, for she was near the center of the room in front of the stove. The grate was open, the embers but a few feet in front of her. Licking up red and orange, they cast an eerie glow about her prison. A few lamps hung from the ceiling, swaying with the motion of the ship.

There were a few dozen boys and young men of varying ages scattered about. Some sat in chairs and some stood, others hanging in their hammocks, their feet dangling over the sides. Some were non-commissioned officers from what she could see of the uniforms. Most were cabin boys though. All stared at her with varying degrees of interest. A few murmured among themselves, most remaining silent. Despite shivering at the implications of her vulnerable position, she held her head is high, shoulders squared as much as she could manage Mouth pressed into a thin line of controlled rage, she narrowed her eyes at the boy who called out the rule.

"He learns fast, does he, Clemson?" the smooth voice from before she was knocked out sing-songed behind her. Steps echoing on the floor, he came into her line of vision. A midshipman, he was somewhat tall though a bit slight of build. Thick, curly black hair pulled back into a queue, his uniform was surprising flawless. Gold buttons shining, white breeches and stockings with nary a spot, black shoes and silver buckles polished to a high shine, he was as though an illustration from a novel. Wearing his tricorne at jaunty angle made his face even more handsome, the sharp angles of his cheeks sprayed with freckles. His full lips were pursed and his pointed nose did detract from his allure.

He reminded of her of the officers she would see at the various balls and assemblies back home. No doubt surrounded by a gaggle of giggling women, he would dance with every single one them, heavily lashed grey eyes sparkling in the candlelight the entire evening. Too bad he wore such a feral grin.

"Welcome to the crew of the _Dauntless _Mr-?"

"Granner," she snapped, only to be met by another swipe across the knuckles with the same wooden stick from before. It came from another youth standing to her left at the signal of a nod from the midshipman in front of her. She refused to give him the satisfaction of making a sound, save for a slight gurgle from the sting. Really, it did not hurt much. It was more the indignity of her position and her fear of them finding out her true sex that caused the most fear.

"You shall address any who address you as 'Sir!'" the boy from before called out. She shot him a murderous look as the officer pulled up a chair and set it a few inches in front of her. He gracefully slid himself into it so that he sat on it backwards. Arms casually folded over the chair back, he gave her a quick once over.

"Christian name?" he drawled.

"It _is _Christian…sir," she winced, expecting another blow for her impertinent reply. But it didn't come.

"And where do you hail from, Christian Granner?" She didn't answer, instead giving him a stare that swore vengeance as soon as she was free. Her mouth twisted into an expression of abject anger, she met by another sting to her hands.

"All questions are to be answered in a timely fashion!" the boy called out. "Any need to repeat the question will result in a repeat of the punishment!" he mocked.

"And where do you hail-"

"Woolsthorpe, Lincolnshire. Sir," she grit before he finished the question, believing the lie (for the village of Woolsthorpe was only a few miles away from Beldrake). Though not before receiving another smack to the knuckles. "You didn't repeat the question!" she yelped, which results in another smack. "Sir!" she added.

"I had to repeat the question," he evenly replied.

"The rules declare the question must be repeated, _sir_," she snorted. "You repeated words, which proved a phrase. And hence, the _full_ question was not repeated, _sir_." She braced herself for another hit, which comes as expected. However, the officer quickly held up a hand to stop a second one.

"You prove a rather astute follower of semantics, Mr. Granner?" he quietly declared, voice sliding around his words like a snake. _Like the Devil seducing Eve at the tree-_

"I am a follower of the rules, sir. And your previous rule was not clear…sir," she spat.

"Impudence," he chuckled, now taking the switch from the other youth, "Is not tolerated in his majesty's navy." Standing, he raised it high above his head, bringing it down three times. She flinched, but did not cry out as it connected with her knuckles. Biting her lip and then taking deep breaths, she closed her eyes against the smarting pain. Those ones definitely stung.

"You won't cry out?" he smirked. She silently nodded in reply, opening her eyes and staring hard at him. "Are you positive?" he whispred, leaning forward and examining her face. "You certainly look as though you may cry," he breathed, voice hot on her skin as he reached out to wipe away a tear sliding down her cheek. "Aye, your tears are salty," he languidly continued, sucking his index finger and then flicking his hand away from her. "You will not cry, will you boy?" he soothed, still close to her face. She again nodded in agreement, ignoring the tear more freely falling down her flushed face. "I suppose you answered the question with your nod," he replied, almost to himself. "So you say you are from Lincolnshire?" she said nothing as he called out an older youth behind him.

"Huxley? Does his elocution sound as though he tells the truth?" A small brunette youth with pale skin emerged from the shadows behind the officer. Slinking forward, he shoved back his stringy hair with a scarred hand.

"Aye, Midshipman Cavendish, sir, it do. Sounds like a proper nor'easterner, sir, though his tone is mighty educated, sir. Had a tutor or something along them lines, no doubt. Clemson says he may read and write, sir." Her eyes went wide at Huxley's easy read of her based simply on her accent.

"Huxley is a master of accents and bearing," Cavendish said in response to her expression. "Though he appears quite young, he does not lack a rather lively history. Been all around England and a bit of Scotland in a rather varied career before finding himself here. Including but not limited to thief, fortune teller, circus performer, fencer, gambler, bard, actor and poacher. Nothing fools him in the way of an origin, from the place of birth to the level of learning. And so we know the little man does not lie," Cavendish continued, voice rising as he alighted from his seat.

"Let us reward him for his forthright nature, aye, men?" he smirked. There was a rousing murmur as another non-commissioned officer untied one of her ankles and she immediately wagged her foot to get it awake. However she jumped in her chair, cursing to herself as she received another swipe. "I did not say you may move, lad!" Cavendish declared, to which she stamped her foot back to its original position. "Shall we continue then?" he said, voice dropping to its previous practiced ease. His only reply was her expression of pure malice, to which he grinned.

"Now, old Clemson here pointed out that you have been quite enigmatic for the entirety of the voyage so far," he nodded, gesturing to Clemson. She stared at the cabin boy and he quickly looked away. _Good_, she mused. She hoped he felt some guilt over bringing her into this precarious position. "Frankly, none of us take kindly to being snubbed. Especially when all you seem to do is talk to the officers-"

"I do no such thing…bloody hell!" There came another swat of the switch. "Besides," she breathed, "None of you have ever said a word to me," only to be met by another swat. "Oh, forgive me. Did I speak out of turn?" she sarcastically declared, biting her lip at another swat.

"I didn't ask a question," Cavendish flatly said.

"It was implied…oof!" she snorted as another swat rained down across her knuckles.

"Well, let us establish that the questions _explicitly_ stated are the only to be answered," he sharply replied, eyes glittering. She rolled her eyes, bracing for another swat that surprisingly didn't come. "So why the cold shoulder, Christian?" She paused, not expecting the question, mind racing to come up with an answer in a timely fashion.

"Because this is my first voyage and I am unaware of the protocol in fraternizing with the crew considering my precarious position, sir!" she rambled at seeing him raise a hand for another smack. "I am a civilian and assumed none of you wished my company, sir," she stammered, eyes following his hand clutching the stick.

"Interesting," Cavendish slithered.

"He's obviously educated, sir," Huxley faintly said. "Most likely used to a strict structure of hierarchy and whatnot." She arched an eyebrow at this truth, stomach dropping with fear. What else would that one be able to figure out?

"That may be true," Cavendish said with aplomb, "But it does not excuse the crime, now does it boys?"

"Crime?!" she exclaimed as he was met by a murmur of approval. "But I did not know that a crime was committed…OW!" she exclaimed at the accompanying swat.

"Regardless, you broke the rules, Granner," he declared. "Now, what say you, crew? What shall be the punishment of introduction to this here surgeon's assistant?"

"You hoisted me to the sail overnight!" one boy called out.

"Made he dangle upside down from the riggin'!" another one brayed.

"Striped me bare and made me hunt for me clothes tossed around the ship in the dead of night!" a voice called from behind her.

"A-ha! Gentlemen and no-so-gentlemen, I think we have our solution. Men? Strip him!"

She made a horrified "O" with her mouth as they descended upon her. Rage and fear alternately flooding her senses, she began rocking in her chair. Screaming bloody murder at the lot of them did no good as rough hands grabbed her arms. A blade sliced away the ropes binding her to her seat, another slicing away the ropes on her other ankle. Without warning, the chair fell to it side and she let out a screech of pain as her shoulder connected with the wood, for her hands were still tied and she couldn't wrench away from the impact in time. Three pairs of hands hurled off her shoes, others snatching at her jacket as they yanked her to her feet.

Sheer panic hit her, the color draining from her face, her countenance ashen. Without thought, she shrieked with an earsplitting bellow, "Any of you lay a hand on me, I swear by God and all his holy angels as I swear upon my _life_ the next time any _bloody_ one of you comes to the medical cabin, you _will not_ leave it, save by a _burial_ at sea!"

Dead silence filled the air as everyone froze, all immediately backing away from her. Left lying on her side, she snarled as Cavendish whirled around to face her. His cheeks scarlet, his eyes bright and terrible as let out a hiss of indignation.

"You…_dare_ question the command of Midshipman Julian Spencer Cavendish of Nottinghamshire, whelp?"

"Well when one puts it in that way…_Jesus Christ!" _she growled, loosing her footing as she felt the snap of the switch on her hands three times. "Y-yes!" she grit, sweat beading her brow as she was yanked none-too-gently back up to her feet. "I do question it! Especially when I've done no wrong!"

"So you _do_ question a Midshipman's authority," he smirks.

"I am not your bloody crew!" she spat, sending Clemson and Huxley reeling with her vicious tone, though Cavendish remained implacable.

"Looks as though we shall have to remedy that quandary. Boys, get the iron!" A loud whoop filled the quarters, some rushing in the opposite direction fetch this so-called iron. "As for you, Mr. Granner," he laughed, the sound low and vicious in his throat, "You have won this battle; you may keep your clothes on," he sweetly murmured, leaning in so that he was almost nose to nose with her. "We shall only need your right arm, love." With that, one of the older boys quickly cut her bonds, then grabbing her wrists while another ripped apart her shirt sleeve. Wrenching her wrist, he exposes her pale forearm. "Unmarred!" Cavendish declared, to which the boys whooped again. "You are the perfect candidate, Mr. Granner!" he bowed with mocking respect.

She almost went into a dead faint at the sight in front of her, for one of the older boys held a brand in his hand. Waving it in front of her before he shoved it into the embers of the stove, he stood back to watch it heat "Unhand me, your perfidious ruffians! You sacks of waste!" she choked, far too terrified to scream, surprised the words are even able to escape her mouth. "Let go of me _this instant!_"

"Not until after the ritual," Cavendish somberly declared.

"I swear to God-"

"What?" he shrugfed. "You chose the second option, love. And now, the consequences must be reaped." She shivered, tears stinging her eyes as the brand was brought out, red-hot and sizzling. It was assed to Cavendish, who hushed the crowd with an upheld hand. "Christian Granner," he declared, voice low and serious as the group fell silent and mesmerized, "I sentence you in the name of Brotherhood of the Boys of the _Dauntless_. Your crime? Snobbery scattered with a dash of unhealthy hubris, a slice of arrogance and shot of supercilious condescension. You are hereby condemned to be branded forthwith." Turning to face her, he uttered, "Do you, Mr. Granner accept this charges?"

Her eyes were wide and wet, mouth open with shock as she felt the grip of those who held her tightening in preparation. Suddenly, she blinked.

"_No_."

"No?" he replied, surprised.

"NO!" she growled, "I do not accept this charges. Do with me as you wish, but know you have done it wrongly, with no cause. I refuse to accept such blasphemy!"

"So you deny it, though your back is against the proverbial wall?" he uttered.

"Are you _deaf,_ midshipman?Precisely," she snapped. "I've no more to say on the matter. Proceed," she swallowed, bracing herself.

"Indeed," he laughs. "Christian Granner, of his majesty's _Dauntless_, you have passed the test and have shown your quality." Passing the brand back to a boy, who quickly stuck it in the embers, he gave a lazy flick of his hand, her captors immediately releasing her. Stumbling to her knees in surprise, she quickly gathered herself to her feet. Seething, she glared around the room.

"What the dickens is going on here?!" she growled, eyes bright with rage as she threw her hands up, fingers twitching.

"Language, Granner!" Cavendish snorted

"Bollocks!"

"Again lad, _language_," Cavendish chuckled. "You've shown your quality, boy. Barely flinched when under the threat of danger. Thereby, only now are you a true member of this crew, where cowardice and self-preservation will not be abided. Welcome!"

"I-it was a j-joke?" she sputtered, "Putting one over on me?!"

"More of a hazin'," Clemson grinned. "Ya brought on yourself. Though honestly, I wasn't expectin' ya to struggle so much. Thought you'd be far more of pansy. Good show, lad!"

Vision clouding with a rage that seemed to flood through every blood vessel, she was absolutely surprised when her fist soundly connected with Cavendish's head. However, she was even more surprised when he snarled at her, fist quick as lightening and flying to her head as well. In fact, it was stupendously surprising when the stars exploded in front of her eyes, pain ringing in her ears. As her vision went dark, she couldn't help but mutter with reproach as she hit the floor, much like a rather small sack of potatoes.

* * *

"Oh, that wasn't a good way for that to go at all, lad," she heard a voice distantly call from her sleep. Face cool with water, she struggled to say something, anything. However the words didn't match up with the motions of her mouth.

"I should've killed you for that one, boy," came the second voice. She recognized that one easily enough. Cultured and arrogant. Bright grey eyes met hers when she was finally able to focus. "In fact, I should've tied you to a canon ball and dropped you overboard. Lucky I only knocked you out. No one lays a hand on a Cavendish."

"They are lords of Devonshire after all," she muttered. Suddenly she stiffened, reaching down. Yes, her clothes were still in place. _But did they know?_

"Not that side of the family, more near Newcastle," he quietly retorted in surprise.

"Eh, why would she know any better?" Yes, that was Jacques. And he was apparently fanning her face with something.

"The question is, why would a common street urchin know of anything of that sort in the first place?" Cavendish distantly replied.

"You mentioned it before," she groaned with relief. They certainly gave no sign of knowing her true sex. Otherwise, she was sure she would've found herself violated. Swallowing back a wave of vomit and horror at the thought, she squeezed her eyes shut into order to collect herself. Trying to sit up as she opened her eyes again, she only fell back as her vision swam, her stomach tied in knots. "Bucket?" she called out. Finding one brought in front off her, she emptied the contents of stomach, the nausea winding its way through her.

"Serves you bloody right," Cavendish chuckled, though he passed a rag to wipe her mouth, which she obediently did. Suddenly, he reached out, grabbing her by the chin and forcing her to look up at him. Grey eyes sparking, his mouth was twisted with vengeance.

"Now, my little heathen," he snapped, "Should you _ever_ lay a hand on me, on accident or for some other insane purpose," she heard the sound of a knife being pulled from a sheath, its silver blade flashing in front of her eyes before its laid to her throat. She didn't dare swallow in fear, for it would slice her right through. "I'll slit that rather charmingly pale throat of yours," he casually continued. Only now did she see the rather nasty bruise on the side of his face, near his jaw. "Just be happy you look far worse than I do. Otherwise, it would've been a sliced neck and a new food for the fishes." Shoving her away, he speedily sheathed his weapon as though nothing out of the ordinary has occured.

She remained silent. Frankly, she was too exhausted and ill to allow the fear to overwhelm her, at least for now. Later, she would definitely find herself far more distressed once she allowed everything that occurred to settle on her mind. But for now, she scowled, though it hurt her face to do so.

"Indeed," Clemson slowly replied, eyes darting back and forth between the other two as he tossed her a snuffbox. Flipping it over, she examined her face in its polished bottom. She couldn't help but moan in disgust; a black eye and split lip. Lovely.

"You tripped somewhere along the decks," Cavendish brusquely intoned, snatching the snuffbox from her and stuffing it into the pocket of his overcoat, "That will be your story, of course, for your rather unfortunate face."

"Aye," she distantly replied.

"Otherwise, I must say I'm quite surprised by your moxie," he darkly chuckled, inspecting his nails from his seat by the bed she lay upon. "Honestly, you should direct such impulses somewhere else besides my face," he sniffed. "Save for that, you may make something of yourself yet. Clemson, please escort Granner back to his quarters." With that, she was yanked to feet by Cavendish and shoved to the door so hard she almost tripped over her feet. If not for Clemson, she would've hit the floor. Swaying, she as supported mostly by the cabin boy as he led her to quarters. Stopping outside Henry's door, he shook his head.

"You're a fool-and-a-half, boy," he sighed. "Never lay a hand on Chief Petty Officer Cavendish, as he never makes empty threats. Don't sway to his bad side, as he will be your worst enemy aboard. Stay on his good side and he'll be loyal, at least in ways that serve his purpose."

"That's _not_ loyalty," she sharply replied.

"Oddly enough, it usually works out in your favor. Eventually," Clemson slowly said. With that he left her by the door.

"So?" Cavendish said when Clemson returned to his quarters. Hanging by the door, the cabin boy shrugged, shuffling his feet and staring at the floor.

"Did you really have to threaten-?"

"I do what I can to keep my position of power upon this vessel," Cavendish snit. "Besides, how were we to know that _he_ actually proves a _she?_ I certainly never expected to have the boy in my quarters and discover such. Then again, I never expected to be on the receiving end of such a wallop. Especially from some wench."

"You'll not turn her in to the officers?"

"Nay," Cavendish grinned, "It serves no purpose, at least not now. When the time comes and when I need something, I'll reveal my hand. Until then," he growled, quickly descending upon Clemson and standing almost nose-to-nose with him, "Neither she nor anyone else is to realize we know of her true nature. Understand?" he snarled. Clemson simply nodded, backing away until his shoulders were pressed to the door. "Excellent," Cavendish chuckled, mood suddenly shifting. "You're dismissed." With that, Clemson quickly nodded and left the room as quickly as possible. Heading back to his shared quarters below decks, he mused on this rather odd turn of events, eventually drifting off to sleep.

* * *

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Henry declared as Christian straightened out her coat in front of the mirror the next morning.

"Fell down the stairs on my way to bed last night," she winced, fingers grazing her black eye. Licking her newly scabbed lip, she cracked her knuckles with put upon ease. Glancing away, she speedily continued dressing, ignoring the wave of tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

"_Right,_" Henry retorted. "You might want to make better friends with the crew then," he flatly continued with a roll of his eyes as she pressed her lips together in understanding. "In the meantime, I'll be down in the medical rooms, expecting you to follow shortly…Good morning, Midshipman Cavendish," he said as he exited the quarters.

"Sir," came the drawled reply. Blanching, she took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before following the doctor. Without warning, she was forced to bite back a yelp at the tight grip suddenly on her arm.

"Mr. Granner-"

"I thought we agreed to a truce, Midshipman?" she bit.

"I did no such thing," he slowly replied, eyes sparkling in the dim light of the hall. "In fact, I was just about to hire you for a job."

"I have a job," she snapped, speedily shifting her weight so that she wrenched out of his grip.

"Well, it's not a job, per say," he retorted, casually leaning against the doorjamb, "More of an order."

"I'm not crew-"

"And I don't give a damn, as you can still easily disappear overboard. Accidents happen all the time, wouldn't you know?" he laughed with a feral grin.

She swallowed, fighting to keep her voice steady. "What do you want?"

"The Midshipman's exam is coming up within a month and seeing that you can apparently read, You will assist in my preparation for it."

"You're already a midshipman, in case you hadn't noticed-"

"My you've got quite the mouth on you. A shame it's split," he easily replied, awarded with a vicious expression from her before she had time to control herself.

"Well you can't pass the exam if you're illiterate," she scowled. "Everyone knows _that_. Surprised to find such is the case from a little lord of Newcastle."

"Watch your tongue, Granner, or I'll-"

"Cut it out?" she sniffed, shaking her head and crossing her arms with put upon boredom. "I expect a much more original threat. You seem to be the creative type, as I have my knuckles to remind of your little undertaking last night." Suddenly, her back was shoved into the wall, causing her to let out a hiss of pain. Almost falling to her knees, she swayed to a standstill. Glancing up, she was utterly surprised to find him once again casually standing across from her. Arms crossed, he'd nary a speck of dirt on him, no sign of the previous assault apparent.

"How do you remain so bloody immaculate?" she hissed, rubbing her now aching shoulder.

"You will help me with my exam," he shrugged, icy grin still in place. "There were so called 'irregularities' in the previous one, so the Commodore has taken it upon himself to have the officers re-administer it. Seeing as no one failed the first one, he expects all of us to pass. And so you will assist me."

"Ah, so you cheated the first time?" she triumphantly replied.

"I know this comes as a surprise, but I did not," he said, affronted and completly surprising her. However, her expression remained impassive and she said nothing. "Watch yourself, Granner," he snapped, though the smile still graced his fac, "We all need protection. And you would do well to keep that rather comely face of yours intact. It's so unbecoming at moment, what, with your _fall _from last night."

"I'm sure the commissioned officers would be would be none too pleased at finding you out as the ringleader of the little hazing operation you're running," she bristled, voice dripping with thinly veiled threat and almost dangerous as she still rubbed her shoulder. "Not to mention the gambling. I believe those offenses carry quite a few lashes. And it would not do to see _your _comely skin so marred."

Staring at her in surprise, he suddenly started to laugh, throwing his head back in disbelief. "You are quite the brave little imbecile, Mr. Granner-"

"Cut to the bloody chase; when should I assist you for your exam, Cavendish?" she growled.

"Tomorrow night around nine. Somewhere along the quarter deck should suffice." She fixed him with a stare before spinning on her heel. "Tell me, Granner," he drawled, "Why aren't you more concerned about your newly precarious position?" Spinning around, her smirk matched his, causing him to arch a disbelieving brow.

"Because Cavendish," she flatly said, "Much like I may easily disappear overboard, you could disappear as well. Especially after eating some sort of poisoned food. Considering my current occupation, I do retain a rather a vast knowledge of quite a few medicinal concoctions. Many of them proving so poisonous, somehow I don't think you'd fancy a burial at sea. Good morning, Midshipman."

"Mr. Granner," he chuckled, "I look forward to the challenge of dealing with you." He laughed even more as she let out a string of muttered curses as she made her way to the infirmary. Wandering into the dimly lit room, she was surprised to find Henry sitting at the table, staring at her as she entered. Going about her usual morning tasks of organizing the various poultices, liquid remedies and instruments, she was even more chagrined to find him still silently sitting there a half-hour later.

"Sir-"

"You need to learn how to use a sword," he said with little fanfare despite speedily striding over to her. "The sooner the better," he swallowed, gaze quickly taking in her black eye and scabbed-over lip. "After all, we wouldn't want you have anymore falls."

"Because swordwork will protect me from such?"

"Because we don't want anymore run-ins with the rather _illustrious_ Cavendish," he sarcastically retorted. "First lesson begins this evening, at six bells." She didn't have time to retort, as he quickly disappeared from the infirmary. Letting out a sigh of frustration, she was left by herself, mixing yet another odd concoction together to take down the swelling around her eye.


	9. Sword Work

"I still got a bad feeling 'bout this," Muse snorted as Maye wandered behind him upon the deck, ordering their men to let loose the sails a bit more aboard La Dame Aimable. Bringing up his spyglass, Muse shook his head in disagreement as he took in the sight of Dauntless on the horizon at their bow. "The deck's full up with bluecoats," he sighed, "Looks like that git Norrington ain't taking this whole pursuit lightly," he declared, snapping his spyglass shut for emphasis.

"Eh, we've been followin' 'em for close to a week and they still haven't noticed us," Maye shrugged, "Easy pickings."

_"Easy?!"_ Muse retorted with exasperation, eyes flashing as he spun around to face her. An expression of disbelief flew to his face as he took in the casual manner in which she languidly stood at the rails, hunched over them with her hands clasped together. "This be the _Scourge 'o Piracy_ we talkin' about here! We're bloody idiots is what we are. I can't believe we let Jack talk us into trying slow 'em down!" he muttered.

"Jack beat 'im."

"Jack be bloody touched, is what he is. He's either blessed or cursed. Take yer pick, lass, though I'm goin' with the latter," Muse retorted with a roll of his eyes. Maye mocked his expression before leaning back against the rail and crossing her arms.

"So who says we have to keep the agreement?" she suddenly smirked.

"We don't," Muse sighed, "But if we do and Jack does end up escapin', he'll be owing us big."

"Fine," Maye declared with a dismissive wave before clapping her brother on the back

"But if we get noosed, don't say I didn't tell ya so," Muse muttered. Maye silently nodded, watching out the corner of eye as Muse worried his lip and contemplated the latest conundrum they'd seen fit to put themselves squarely in the middle of.

* * *

"So how does your apprentice fair?" Norrington asked of the ship's doctor. Henry shrugged his shoulders and leaned along the railings of the _Dauntless_, eyes focused on the sun as it rose over edge of the far horizon. Norrington was forced to squint, the hangover of last night almost causing him to empty the contents of his breakfast over the railings.

They'd been on the chase roughly a month or so. The weather remained fair despite a possible storm brewing just to the east of them. Making good time from Bermuda, where they restocked supplies, they followed the _Black Pearl_ towards the open sea. Luckily, the _Pearl_ apparently had to make port somewhere, though where and how she was able to temporarily escape notice remained a mystery. However, both vessels were now prepared for entering the open seas as scheduled to occur in two days, barring any sort of disaster.

"Seasick," Henry chortled, glancing sideways at a Norrington, who was positively green, though not from seasickness.

"Still?" Norrington arched a brow.

"Aye, the boy has a weak stomach, I suppose. It proves his worst enemy so far."

"Still proves my own as well," Gillette laughed, lounging against the rails to Henry's side. "I assume this is the boy's first sea journey. Then again, you never quite get used to it. _C'est la vie en mer, je supposent_." Groves silently nodded in agreement from where he sat on some boxes by the rigging.

"Let us pray that it remains everyone's only enemy," Norrington sniffed. Closing his eyes against the sun, he winced at the effects of his hangover. Other than that, there were no signs of his collapse into his bed last night other than the glass of sherry that'd spilled along the floor of his quarters. "Well, run-ins with French or Spanish I would like to avoid," he mused. "We've been lucky so far. However, you might want to teach the boy some sword work. Just in case we do find ourselves amidst such a situation, he should be able to defend himself."

"I've already begun about a fortnight ago. He's terrible, though," Henry chuckled, "Maybe you should teach him,"

"I would argue that is necessary," Groves smirked, "After all, you're one of the worst swordsmen among us," he laughed, ignoring Henry's pointed expression.

"So I'm not exactly the best," the doctor snorted, "With you brigands for teachers, is it any wonder I'm atrocious with the rapier?"

"Ah, _touché_," Gillette smiled. He didn't mind the insult, as he'd known the doctor for some time.

"Far more excellent at taking swords out of people rather than stabbing them in," Henry continued, "Besides, you all will be defending us all if the time should come. Surely men of His Majesty's Navy do not prove reluctant to enter battle?" the doctor grinned. "Or is that the reason we have changed course?" Norrington gave Henry a surprised glance, to which the doctor laughed. "I know to read charts and the direction of wheel as well. We are not going in the direction of Bimini?"

"Aye," Norrington murmured, "As the next inhabitable island is Flores. 'Tis a long journey, even if the winds stay right. Sparrow-"

"Bastard," Groves muttered under his breath, causing Gillette to raise an eyebrow. Groves only shrugged in reply.

"…Heads due northwest," Norrington continued, voice low with irritation. "I must focus on apprehending him. Though we have plenty of firepower, this is not a fast ship and we cannot afford to loose time with skirmishes. I need Sparrow's neck," he grit.

"So you're done with open war?" Henry replied after a while. He'd wondered at this question ever sense the Commodore touched on the subject near the beginning of the voyage. He knew Norrington wasn't telling the whole story of what previously happened with Sparrow. And neither were Gillette and Groves. After all, Henry could tell when his friend was hiding something, having known James his whole life.

Henry was the son of a former ship's physician. With a bit of luck and connections, he eventfully found himself in the employ of a retired Vice Admiral of the Blue and the 3rd Earl of Gloucestershire, Lawrence Norrington, James' father. And so James and Henry grew up together in Gloucestershire, on the ancestral Norrington estate of Dreysbury Park. The last surviving child out of five and the third son, James stood to inherit a relatively paltry sum. And only then upon his mother's death. Thus he was not expected to have quite so many airs as his older siblings. Therefore, he was allowed to mingle children of the help such as Henry.

As an expendable son of the landed gentry, James entered into the navy at the age of eleven. Meanwhile, Henry remained in Gloucestershire and trained under his father until he turned 16. He then headed to London find his fortune. Separated for years, the two happened by chance to meet again, soon after of Norrington's earliest victories. For over a decade ago, the young captain captured the French frigate, the _Sirene_. In taking inventory of his newly acquired vessel, Norrington shockingly found that Henry was one of the few surviving prisoners aboard. A few weeks before, the physician had been taken prisoner from a merchant vessel, the _Golden Crown_, on its way to Jamaica. Luckily, the French kept him around, as right after their victorious skirmish with the _Golden Crown_, he expertly sewed up much of their injured crew. Thereby he earned himself a healthy dose of mercy from the Frogs.

Seeing that his options were limited and immediately noticing the tight command Captain Norrington insisted upon, Henry hedged his bets; after rescue, Henry joined James' crew as a surgeon and physician, appreciative of the steady pay. And so here they were now, years later, friends to the end.

"We are never done with war," Norrington thoughtfully continued to the previous question, hands clasped behind his back, "Especially against pirates."

"Whatever you say, my lord," Henry replied with nod.

"Alas, I am gentleman by blood, not guineas," he retorted with an incredulous brow.

"Titles mean nothing," Groves uttered.

"Except for those who must fall back on them for want of skill or money," Gillette continued. "_After all, pour l'argent fait le monde tourner_."

"And so I pray for Spanish and French frigates to plunder!" Henry chuckled darkly.

"Dr. McCarnelly!" Christian called out, ambling across the deck. Due to her courses, her face remained as pale as ever and her stomach was queasy. Thankfully, they'd been at sea for less than 24 hours since Bermuda, so she knew everyone assumed it was seasickness. But all of that was ignored as she saw who Henry spoke with.

"Commodore Norrington," she warily saluted. She still didn't trust him. He seemed a little too stiff to be an actual man. More of a mechanical rendition of a model officer rather than flesh and blood. "Lieutenant Gillette, Lieutenant Groves," she continued, the other two giving her a nod.

"No need for such formalities, Mr. Granner. You are but a civilian, as I have said before," Norrington retorted in clipped tones.

"Forgive me sir," she steadily replied.

"'Tis nothing, Mr. Granner. No on proves infallible, save God himself…what happened to your eye?" he questioned, gaze flitting over the fading bruise just above her left cheek.

"I'm afraid I haven't quite gotten my sea legs," she lied, "Hence a minor run-in with the stairs leading down to the orlop deck." As much as she almost believed the tale, she blanched as the Commodore gave her a rather sharp gaze, signaling, at least to her, that he didn't believe one word of it. Thankfully, the doctor interrupted them.

"You wished to see me?" Henry began, taking note of his apprentice's grey appearance. "You have not stopped taking that draught I insisted on, have you?" he questioned, voice bordering on concern.

"I fear I have," she said, closing her eyes to drive away urge to throw up all over the deck.

"You certainly look worse for wear," Gillette said, though not in a cruel fashion.

"It made me feel quite out of my senses, and I do not enjoy being caught unawares," she breathed, biting her lower, split lip, "Hence, I shall have to ride it out…anyway, I've finished sorting your library, Dr. McCarnelly. Sorted by subject, then alphabetized by title within the group, all volumes in numerical order thereafter. I have also finished my reading of your anatomy volumes, sir."

"Already?"

"Aye, sir. The whole series."

"It seems you have hired yourself a shockingly competent one this time," Groves distantly grinned as she gave him a bewildered expression.

"That's yet to be seen," Henry retorted, causing her to frown with annoyance, "So I expect you shall pass my exam of your knowledge of the volume with a perfect score?" he continued, giving her a cynical expression.

"I shall try."

"Trying is not good enough, Mr. Granner. One must be perfect when dealing with life and death."

"_No one proves infallible, save God himself_, I've heard some say," she murmured as she bit back a grin. Casting a quick glance at the Commodore, who appeared to be doing his best to keep his expression impassive, she nodded. Save his quick cough, Norrington revealed nothing despite the glare Henry threw in his direction. Gillette and Groves openly smiled, though they quickly scattered and begged off further conversation for the sake of various duties to attend to elsewhere.

"Thus, I shall try to mold myself in the image of God," she sniffed, "But I cannot say whether or not I shall be successful. Do you wish anything else of me sir?"

"Go and study the volumes," Henry groused, "I'll not play easy with you, Granner. So you had better back up such words with some semblance of knowledge in that empty head of yours. Now be off!" he ordered, turning his back to his charge. She bit back a smirk as she ambled back to their quarters. Though not before she suddenly found the need to throw up the contents of this morning's breakfast over the bow. "Serves 'im right!" Henry grumbled, hearing his student's apparent sickness.

"Reminds me of a certain young man's apprenticeship to his father," Norrington innocently replied as three bells ring out, signaling 5:30am. "It was only a matter of time before he sent someone to torture you with lessons in the way you tortured him," he blithely said as he walked away, preparing for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, _Flèche_, Mr. Granner! Use the running attack!" Henry snapped in exasperation as she mistakenly feinted left. "If you do not," he declared, whipping his rapier around and whacking her on the behind, "Then is far too easy to stab you in the back," he continued, watching as she rubbed her backside. Glaring at him, she bit her lip and held in a yelp of pain. However, she was honestly more irritated with her slow take to fencing rather than with Dr. McCarnelly's efforts. Admittedly, she was quite tired from last night, her dreams robbing her of the apparent luxury of sleep.

It was late afternoon just before dinner. As promised, Henry decided to it was high time his assistant learn the mechanics of swordsmanship. Taking his charge through the first lesson, back at the stern of the ship roughly a fortnight ago with a wooden walking stick in place of a sword, Henry quickly realized Granner's complete lack of skill. The only thing the boy seemed to have going for him was a surprisingly decent sense of balance. Not to mention a rather odd, almost womanly sort of grace. It still did not save the his sloppy technique. And so here they were, running through their lessons, though now it was their first time using actual weapons versus the training stick.

And she was utterly terrified she'd either be killed or end up running the doctor through.

"You're not allowed to stab one in the back!" Christian hissed, remembering such discussions with Lord Rutland's son, George, while she still resided at Beldrake. While he'd never physically taught her the art of fencing, he'd discussed it in enough detail to give her full comprehension of the Gentlemen's Rules.

"And you think a pirate will follow rules?" Henry questioned with amusement, slapping her on the hand with the flat of his sword as she lunged again. She didn't hold back a cry at the sting of it this time. The general ache of her hands from the calluses that'd begun to form from her work aboard the ship didn't help either. Having never done anything resembling labor at home, she was appalled by the sorry state of her dry, cracked palms. But she had other things to worry about as Henry lunged to her right, threatening to run her through.

"No pirate follows the supposed rules of swordwork," the doctor continued with a grin, "Nor does a Spaniard or Frenchmen who's boarded this ship, looking to run you through. Desperation calls for desperate actions. Such are the teachings of the great sword master, George Silver."

"But I thought Mr. Silver despised the rapier?" she called out, for once effectively blocking Henry's blow, then lunging forward and blocking another one despite his rapid change of the direction from his attack.

"Which is why we also learn the teachings of the Italian, Vincentio Saviolo." Focusing on sliding out of the way of Henry's blade, she didn't say a word. She was almost successful. But she scraped her heel on a loose board, causing her almost fall backward before speedily, if gracefully recovering. However, she found Henry's swordpoint at her chest again and she was forced to yield.

"You're a rather terrible study in this game, so it would seem," Norrington said behind her. Whipping around, she was mortified to see him standing at the far end of the stern, flanked by two other officers. _Gillette and Groves?_ she thought to herself. She couldn't be sure, as their silhouettes were dark against the setting sun.

"He _is_ terrible," Henry retorted as he whacked her across the arm. "Pay attention, Granner!" he ordered, "There will be constant distractions in the midst of a battle upon the deck, should we be boarded. You'll need to be able to defend yourself."

"Aye," Groves replied out, "I remember my first melee. Horrid business."

"Quite so," Gillette replied, leaning against the railing and watching Henry and Christian continued to spar, though it was more of Henry easily beating Christian.

"I can't do this while they watch!" she nervously declared.

"They're a distraction," Henry replied, easily slashing aside her attack. "Deal with it," he smiled as he then sidestepped her next attack. "You're getting better. Quite competent your Forward Recovery," he murmured as her sword finally crossed with his, forcing him to fall backwards and effectively block him in at the rails. "But you're still nothing, as I use my _In Quartata_," he smirked, turning a quarter to inside and easily knocking the sword out of her hand. A startled expression came to her face as she quickly realized he was simply toying with her. "Do you yield?"

"I assume I shall have to," she replied as she bit her lip in frustration.

"Well then, go on, grab your sword," Henry saluted her. "Good show, for the most part." Quickly sheathing his weapon, he waved her away, telling her instructions for their next lesson tomorrow morning.

Later that night, she made her way to the stern, as per usual. Though this time, she had her sword. A surprisingly well-made backsword, it used to belong to one of the midshipman from a previous voyage. Put into storage when the poor fellow died with little in the way of any family to send his effects to, it was hers now. So she practiced as best as she could, quickly finding the air a rather easy opponent.

"You're weak on your right side," a surprised voice said just to her left out, causing her to freeze. "And your movements are far too wide. It is not theater, boy. Quick and precise is all you need."

"Commodore," she warily saluted as he came into view next to her, "What are you doing here, sir?"

"On _my_ ship?" he sniffed, arching an apparently offended brow, "I've just come off the watch. Not that it's your concern."

"My mistake," she flatly said, immediately wondering why on earth he always seemed to contradict how she assumed he would react to her sarcastic replies.

Sometimes there would there come that odd, almost pleased quarter-smile to her impertinence. As though he silently egged her on. In a strange sense, she held the distinct impression that she amused him more often then not. But other times, as was the case now, he remained silent and distant. That hard gaze swept over her in resigned, almost disappointed indifference. However, she quickly realized that no matter the circumstance, she never found herself afraid of him. Wary, but not terrified in the slightest. At least that held a hint of comfort. _You're a bloody enigma, Commodore._

His inscrutable expression caused her to stiffen, even as she continued, "Sir-"

"You need practice," he suddenly declared, "And lots of it…especially you."

"But you are the best, so I've heard," she swallowed, the color draining from her face, "And such familiarity seems a bit out of place for you, no?"

"Then who better to practice with?" he evenly said despite the inexplicable flash of mischief in his eyes. "And obviously, you mistake my familiarity for simply wishing you will prove able to hold your own should we be boarded. I have my crew's life in my hands, and as such, I should teach them to survive, no?"

"_Touché_."

"Indeed," he fleetingly grinned before his expression slid back to its usual one of apathy. _And I am surprised yet again, she mused._

Unsheathing his sword and quickly saluting her, he lunged into the offensive. As he speedily attacked, she was forced to stumble backwards. Even with wildly swinging her weapon around, she didn't land one hit (though she was thankful of it, as it would be in rather poor form to accidentally murder the captain of the ship). She quickly found he'd pushed her back so she was effectively hemmed in, her back to the rails of the stern. His swordpoint suddenly at her throat, she was forced to yield.

"Again," he quietly ordered, withdrawing with a salute of his rapier. On the defensive again, she continued to wildly swing around. The swiftness of his motions caused panic to overtake her so quickly, she forgot every single bit of the lesson Dr. McCarnelly taught her that evening. She was even worst this time around, as it took him under a minute to bring her to yield. "Again," he repeated.

"But-" He attacked before she could finish and she swung wide. It wasn't much of an improvement from before, though it took him about ten seconds longer to trap her against the rails. However, this time he let her continue until swatting her sword out of her hand with an expert flick of his wrist. She was highly impressed, though she didn't admit it out loud. _No wonder he's the best._ "Henry was right," he said as she swore she saw the beginnings of that grin again, "You're in dire need of practice."

"It is not to be expected?" she panted, thoroughly unused to this sort of physical activity. She could wander around the countryside for hours, as she did in her daily rambles around Beldrake in her old life. But fighting like this was something she'd never been expected to do.

"It is," he shrugged, "But My God, you're _terrible_."

"Thank you," she frowned, thick black brows knitted together in annoyance.

"No need to get your hackles up," he snorted at her expression. "I tease, boy," he drawled with a salute of his sword, "Well, save for the terrible part."

"Much appreciated-" But she was cut off as he lunged at her again. This time, she deflected his first motion, lithely leaping to her side and out stepping him for two strokes But within a few minutes, he'd knocked the sword from her hand yet again.

"Good, at least you were ready," he declared as she collected herself.

"It was more instinct, sir," she snapped with irritation. Though it was more at her lack of skill rather than directed towards him.

"We'll have to train it right out of you then," he said, almost to himself. "The best swordsmen are driven by skill," he continued more loudly, "For instinct clouds the mind and forces you to rely on simple survival, which causes fear. Excellent Balestra Lunge, though. And your grace will certainly help you in the long run," he nodded at her footwork. "But we shall have work on your defenses. Name five means of footwork," he suddenly quizzed her.

"Recovery, Passata-sotto, Redoublement, Cross Over and Flunge," she easily counted off her fingers as she held his gaze.

"You surprise me Mr. Granner," he replied with distant astonishment.

"Come again?"

"You have a decent memory and you don't appear completely daft. I was expecting far less."

"At least you're not completely full of it," she muttered.

"Pardon me?"

"I was just agreeing with your assessment," she said more loudly, cheeks turning red as she tightly grinned.

"So it would seem," he narrowed his eyes. "Meet me here tomorrow, same time," he suddenly added as the bells rang to signal the 10th hour.

"Don't you have far more better things to do than deal with such low-ranking crewmembers?" she lilted, biting back her confusion. "Again, such familiarity-"

"You prove awfully free with your speech, Mr. Granner."

"And again, I apologize."

"You question the opportunity to work one-on-one with a commodore?" he sniffed, "Surely, you cannot be so short-sighted. Many others would be more inclined to appreciation," he steadily continued, sheathing his sword.

"I meant no disrespect, sir," she resolutely replied, "I simply assumed you would be busy with other duties besides teaching surgeon's assistants."

"And now you prove rather diplomatic with your apologies," he smiled. And suddenly she realized she had to admit the Commodore proves far more handsome than she originally gave credit him for. Especially with his current expression. Shaking her head to rid herself of that thought, she shrugged.

"Diplomacy is the root of good breeding and sense."

"As though you're of such," he offhandedly said, though he immediately took her annoyed expression. "And so you prove one of the gentry?" he chuckled with disbelief, "Then why ever are you aboard my ship, of all things?"

"No, sir," she uncomfortably replied. "My birth proves terribly modest, as is expected," she recovered, "And thusly I am forced to find my own way in the world."

"You're certainly an odd one, Mr. Granner." She arched a brow though she silently nodded in agreement. "Let us say," he continued, setting down his sword sheath on the storage crates behind him, "That I look forward to the challenge of attempting to teach such skills to someone in such dire need of them. Terrible swordwork is not tolerable, especially as we may find ourselves on the receiving end of various assaults from pirates and such. Death at their hands does not prove the best." She blanched at his words. "And so you shall meet me here tonight at the 10th hour," he finished, tone snapping back to formal as he gave out the order. "Good night, Mr. Granner."

"Commodore." She touched her brown in respect before turning on her heel. Staring after the boy, Norrington mused on the peculiar situation of his physician's assistant, especially on his rather abysmal skills with the rapier.

"Ship spotted!" came the sudden call from the crow's nest.

"Get below deck," Norrington ordered, Christian on the move before he even finished the sentence. Glancing out in the direction where the orders were yelled, she squinted against the moonlight.

"They look to fly a flag of surrender," she declared, "And British colours," she continued as the ship speedily loomed on the horizon behind them.

"That they do. But 'tis always well done to remain caution," Norrington replied, moving to the wheel. Christian found herself following him. "It may be a trap," he said, "Regardless, go rouse the doctor and prepare your supplies, as there may be injured persons aboard. Simpson?" he called out to a midshipman who scurried towards him, "Signal the ship that we command it to halt, as it flies a white flag." The young midshipman nodded, speeding off with his orders.

* * *

_C'est la vie en mer, je supposent_ – It is life at sea, I suppose

_…pour l'argent fait le monde tourner_ - for money makes the world spin

Dreysbury Park - Norrington's ancestral home, which is based on the estate Dyrham Park, near the village of Dyrham in Gloucestershire, England.

In my timeline for this story, it was granted to Sir Francis Norrington, James' grandfather, by King Charles II in 1662, two years after the King's Restoration in 1660. This was done repayment for Sir Francis' loyalty to the Crown and helping Charles II escape to France in 1651 at the end of the English Civil War from 1642 – 1651. Other gifts to Sir Francis included his second son, Lawrence Norrington (James' father), being quickly pulled through the naval ranks as well as an Earl's title for Sir Francis, who was originally a baron before the civil war.

George Silver (1560s – 1620s) was an English gentleman who wrote on fencing. As written in his _Paradoxes of Defense_ in 1599, he did dislike the rapier, as he felt it was too light for use within a more energetic form of fighting. He focused on methods used for dueling, street defense and on the battlefield.

Vincentio Saviolo (died, 1589 or so) was an Italian fencer who wrote the first book in English on fencing, called _Vincentio Saviolo, His Practise, in Two Bookes, the First Intreating of the Use of the Rapier and Dagger, the Second of Honor and Honorable quarrels._ Saviolo preferred the rapier for fencing.


	10. Outwitted and Outgunned

Muse hated, nay _despised_ the navy.

Having press-ganged him at an early age, they took good care to squash him under their scornful, treacherous thumbs. It took nearly six years before he made his escape, when his ship made port in Cairo. By some miracle of God, he begged, bartered and stole his way back to Portsmouth, England in seven months. Finding his parents dead and Maye farmed out as a servant to a wretched, beady-eyed silver smith, he killed the man. Making off with a good chunk of his fortune afterwards was a rather nice consolation prize.

_The bloody blighter should've known better than to put his hands on ya!_ he snarled to his terrified twin. After fainting at the sight of him standing over the dead man's body, Maye came to, hysterical. Literally slapping some sense into her, Muse eyed the burgeoning belly of his sixteen year-old sister. And it was then he decided he had no qualms about the bloodied dagger in his hand. It felt safe and reliable. As though it belonged there the entire time. While it was not the first man he'd killed, it was definitely the most satisfying.

Murder equaled protection. It was a lesson he would take with him to his very dying breath.

Ordering her to bag up as much silver as she could carry, they escaped. Slipping out of England via the Channel and making their way to Calais was surprisingly easy. Fencing the silver was not. But after some time, they had a sizable amount of gold livres. Enough to ensure a relatively comfortable birth for his nephew at a local nunnery in Cambrai. And just enough to place the child on the doorstep of a sympathetic family of lacemakers in the neighborhood. After hanging around for a few weeks with their ears to the ground, they knew the boy would be in good hands. And though Maye cried her heart out for the better part of year, she came to grudgingly accept it. Well, that was all he could assume. She certainly never made any mention of the child thereafter.

Through various twists of fortune, they found themselves penniless yet again. To hire themselves out as crew aboard a pirate ship, they disguised themselves as twin boys. Eventually, Muse rose to become its captain. Mostly as a result Maye's of murder the old one (_You said the bloody blighter should've know better than to put his hands on me_, she shrugged to Muse's shocked discovery. After all, it was now she who held the bloodied dagger in her hand. And it was now she who stood over the body, with nary a hint of regret reflected in her icy blue eyes). With his experience as a sailor and Maye's surprising head for strategy, they followed rumors of better seas to the Caribbean. Years passed and they crossed paths with Sparrow on many an occassion. And now they found themselves here.

Muse hated, nay _despised_ the navy. But he preferred not find himself in a failed stand off with them.

* * *

Norrington almost refused to believe it; boarding the apparently distressed ship had quickly resulted in a standoff upon the deck. Even the _Dauntless_ and the_ La Dame Aimable_ were in a standoff as well, the respective gun turrets on the portside of the _Dauntless_ and the starboard of the _La Dame Aimable_ open and ready to fire. Canon orders shouted between the two crews mingled within the space between the two vessels. They were joined by a gangplank until a moment ago, when_ La Dame Aimable_ attempted to sail past them in an utterly misguided attempt at escape. Thankfully, the immediate appearance of canons from the _Dauntless_ ended that notion rather quickly.

Also surprising was the fact that the Commodore currently had a woman at swordpoint. Granted, the flame-haired wench proved a rather irate looking sort. Judging by the manner in which she easily threatened the slit Gillette's throat at the first opportunity and with little conscience, she had plenty of experience. Not to mention, her cutlass was drawn and ready to strike. Regardless, the whole business made Norrington decidedly uncomfortable. Outside of Sparrow's dark-skinned, black-haired apparent first mate, he'd little dealings with female pirates. Especially ones so adamantly aggressive. So far, he found them almost more so than their male counterparts. This one was certainly cut from a rather malevolent cloth, judging by the way her murderous gaze settled on Gillette.

Despite his unease, he still remained ever on his guard. Especially as the female pirate's brother took a threatening step towards him from behind. But no matter, for Groves had that pirate in his sights. The Lieutenant's pistol was cocked, his sword also drawn and ready to deal with another crewmember just to his left. That crewmember in turn had his short sword pointed at Gillette, the Lieutenant with his pistol trained on the pirate woman's brother and his rapier pointed at redheaded woman.

Norrington hated standoffs. It wasn't the fear if them per say. Rather, the peculiarity of their inertia and the general lack of resolution. There was also the high possibility of deadly consequences should he make a wrong assumption of his enemy's nerve. Unfortunately, these pirates weren't particularly feckless. If only judging by their success in getting the navy to board their ship, relatively unprotected and under a false sign of distress.

"I'm suggestin' you disembark," the one named Muse called out behind the Commodore.

"Ah, but we've far more canon and men. You're in no position to negotiate," Norrington icily retorted.

"Won't be matterin' a damn if you're dead."

"I may say the same for you, sir," Norrington snorted with a humorless grin, especially as Gillette cocked his pistol with reassuring aplomb.

"Bloody hell," the woman muttered under her breath.

"Told you we shouldn't have risked takin' em, sis!" her brother snapped, "And then to let 'em board direct rather 'en having 'em bring a longboat-"

"How as I supposed to know it'd end up like this 'en?!" she rolled her eyes.

"'Cause I said so? 'Cause it's the bloody Royal Navy?! _'Cause I bloody said so?!_" he all but screeched.

Norrington would've found their exchange mildly comical, if not for the bevy of weapons drawn. "We don't have time for this-"

There was a snarl as the female spun on her heel and launched herself at one of his men. _Midshipman Cavendish?_ Norrington distantly thought as he cocked his pistol. But there was no time, for the other pirates attacked as well.

Cavendish lithely side-stepped Maye's sword thrust, for she was quite a ways shorter and did not have so far a reach. But he misjudged. Within a flash, she sliced upwards with her opposite hand, catching him across the stomach with her dagger. Had he not been so much taller, she would've sliced him across the chest. Ignoring the bitter flash of pain that stabbed through him, Cavendish let out a snarl of his own and lunged at her. The force of his blow would've sent her flying backwards, but she slid away at the last moment. Spinning backwards, her cutlass whirled through the air in a figure eight, distracting him just enough to cause him to overstep. Losing his balance, he let out a hiss of frustration as she sliced across his shoulder. Fortunately, it wasn't deep enough to draw blood. And thankfully, he was paying attention, regaining his momentum and backing away. She would've run him straight through otherwise.

Cavendish had enough of the bloody wench. Running forward, he snapped his sword up, only to stop mid-motion, change direction and savagely slash downward. But rather than the satisfaction of connecting with flesh, his sword thudded into the rails.

Rather than be sliced in half from neck to waist, Maye planted herself just to the right of the midshipman's path. Planning to simply stab him through with her dagger once he came close enough, she didn't expect him to weigh quite so much. Nor move so quickly. He collided dead on with her, the force of it sending her flying right over the rails. With no time to even let out a scream of surprise, she went tumbling head over heels into the sea. Hitting its surface with a splash and sickening thud, her limp body bobbed in the water for a bit before slowly beginning to sink.

Muse's face went ashen and he ran to the rails. Before anyone could react, his roar of rage caused all, from pirate to navy man, to freeze. Wrenching himself from the grasps of two officers who had him pinned and yanking a sword from one of their sheaths in one smooth motion, he wildly swung a fist outward. The crack of knuckle against bone echoed across the deck as he connected with one of the unlucky officers in front of him. Caught completely off guard, the midshipman sunk to the deck with a groan.

Bellowing an order to restrain the prisoner and again cocking his pistol in preparation, Norrington shouted for assistance as Gillette ordered the marines to hold ranks. But it was of no use. Muse had already hissed and punched his way down the deck to spot where Maye disappeared overboard. And standing between Norrington and the marines were the rest of the crew of _La Dame Aimable_. However, their shock at Muse's reaction and general lack of discipline quickly allowed the crew of the _Dauntless_ to subdue the lot of them. Immediately seeing his crew had them under control, Norrington dropped his weapons and whipped off his coat. Yanking off his wig and kicking off his shoes in preparation to leap overboard, he'd barely finished unbuttoning his waistcoat when Groves grabbed him by the arm.

"'Tis not a great idea sir-"

"She needs assistance!" Norrington snapped as he clambered up the rails. Ignoring the pirates' bristling contempt, he shrugged off Groves. However, the Lieutenant grabbed him by the shoulder again, even as he kept his pistol aimed one of the enemy crew. Threatening to physically yank Norrington back down to the deck, Groves gave him a dark look of warning.

Norrington was about order Groves to unhand him when the splash of the water echoed beneath them. Some ways from the bow and near the quarterdeck, there was a flash of red hair followed by a hoarse shout. Muse had dived into sea. Thankfully, the distraction startled the remaining pirate crew, causing them to hesitate long enough for Norrington to yell orders for his own men to prepare themselves. With a curt nod from the Commodore, now all of the pirates immediately found themselves at the end of various raised weapons.

However, they were again at a standoff, for the pirates remained armed. Norrington couldn't help but roll his eyes, even as he appeared otherwise unphased. _Bloody hell on the horizon-!_

"If we give ya the captains," the pirates' bosun suddenly snickered, interrupting Norrington's thoughts, "You'll be on yer way, then?" He stood just to Gillette's left, Gillette directly in front of Norrington and with his pistol squarely aimed at the bosun's head. Thankfully, the bosun contained a rather ugly visage, made all the moreso by his sneer. Norrington immediately realized he really wouldn't mind shooting it off.

"Now why would I ever agree to that?" he steadily replied, eyes alight with challenge, "All I have to do is give the signal and my ship fires upon yours."

"You'd kill yerself and your own crew," the bosun grinned.

"But at least it would end _your_ kind," Norrington flatly retorted. The bosun faltered, his almost unnaturally dark brown eyes slanting with disbelief. Lumbering form swaying to and fro, he nervously ran a finger up and down the handle of his battle ax. Gaze darting around, he swiftly took in the quiet though flinty resolve of the marines. Norrington gave a thin, if vicious smile at seeing how the bosun's other hand began shaking ever so slightly around the butt of the pistol.

"You be bluffing!" he swallowed.

"All it will take is my signal," Norrington retorted raising his hand. Almost immediately, the creak of even more cannon being run out along the _Dauntless_ could be heard upon the deck of _La Dame Aimable_.

The bosun's eyes widened and he swallowed. Suddenly, the vicious grin lit up his face again. "You don't want us."

"To the contrary," Norrington spat.

"Nay, bluecoat," the bosun chortled, "You be wantin' _Sparrow_." Norrington stiffened as the bosun smiled even more, revealing a rather vile line of rotting teeth. "Word's out, bluecoat; you got it bad for Ole' Jack. Frankly, we thank ye, as ain't none of us wantin' to be the end 'o yer hard nose."

"And how exactly do you know what I want?" Norrington grit, narrowing his eyes.

"Word travels fast with our kind. 'Nough folks witnessed Sparrow's escape."

Though his expression remained impassive, Norrington's mind churned. But it did make sense. Especially considering there were plenty of people about when Sparrow made his move at the gallows. And while pirates were the utter scum of the earth, he knew from his years at Fort Charles that they were always well aware of news out of Port Royal. Outside of Tortuga, it was one of their main haunts. Especially within the poorer districts of town.

"So what have you got to do with it?" Norrington bit as the bosun shrugged.

"We just be a minor distraction at the direct orders 'o Jack, 'tis all. But the longer you stand here wastin' your time, the further Sparrow gets." Norrington nodded for him to continue, though he retained a steady grip on his sword and pistol. "Sparrow be touched by the bloody devil, he do," he continued with a small shudder, though he quickly recovered. "He headin' to Turkey. Somethin' 'bout retrievin' some key to some blaggart's heart."

"And you would betray your own captains over that?"

"To avoiding a long drop and short stop?" the bosun chuckled, "Of course. 'Sides, what's it matter to me? 'Specially considerin' I now be captain with 'em gone."

"Pitiful," Gillette said with disgust as he wrinkled his nose.

"We're _pirates_, mate," the bosun retorted with a roll of his eyes, "Ain't exactly privy to followin' the rules. At least not yours."

"Point taken," Groves retorted, gaze sliding to where the Commodore stood.

Norrington knew if he rounded up the crew, it would take them at least a week-and-a-half to get back to Port Royal. Even more time to process them through the courts. Not to mention that the towing of _La Dame Amiable_ would slow them down considerably. Sparrow would be leagues away by then, possibly completely outside of capture.

He couldn't risk it.

Aye, he _wouldn't _risk it.

"Round up the two overboard," he heard himself steadily order, watching as the marines snapped to order without a second thought. Squaring his shoulders, he fixed Gillette with a withering expression as the Lieutenant shot him a skeptical glance. "I cannot afford to lose more time!" he hissed. Eyes wide with disbelief, Gillette repeated the order, sending the naval men scrambling even more. "We'll need to disembark," Norrington icily continued to the bosun.

"Of course," the pirate grinned, though it looked more like a grimace.

"Don't give me that expression, Lieutenant," Norrington muttered as Groves fixed him with an unbelieving stare. "We've no time to waste," he snorted, "Sparrow's still on the loose.

* * *

Christian nervously sat on the Henry's bed,in the cabin she shared with the doctor along the middle deck within the Officers Quarters. Failing to focus on the French of Descartes'_ Discourse on the Method_ in her hands, she let out a worried sigh. Snapping the volume closed in frustration, she clambered to stand on the bed; she was hoping for a better view from the porthole in order to see what was going on with the distressed ship.

Suddenly, she was startled by a brisk knock on the door. It was speedily followed the hurried identification of one of the midshipman. Scrambling to unlock the door, she was almost knocked to the floor as an officer wordlessly grabbed her by the forearm. Hustling her out the cabin, he snatched up her medical bag from the floor next to the entranceway. All but barking for her go to Gillette's quarters, he shoved the bag into her hands and steadied her as she stumbled into hallway. He silently followed behind her, hard on her heels and almost as though he wished to prevent her escape.

"One the prisoners needs medical attention," he suddenly declared, gravelly voice echoing off the dark hallway.

As he cut in front of her, Christian took in the sight of him (for on an 80-gun ship such as the Dauntless, with up to eight men per gun, there were well over 500 men aboard. Hence, on this small floating city, it was impossible for her to know everyone. And so she'd never laid eyes on this midshipman). Stocky and on the short side, his straight, light brown hair stuck out from odd angles from under his wig. Without a hat or overcoat and just in his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat, he wasb in shambles. White breeches torn at the knee, one stocking fell around his ankle, his face smeared with soot, sweat and flecks of blood. Carrying a pistol and his sheathed rapier in one hand, he was also without his swordbelt.

Christian easily identified the fresh blood smeared across his shirt in large, darkening splotches as he turned around and waved her into Gillette's cabin. The smell of dirt, gunpowder and the tangy, iron scent of blood filled her nostrils as she slipped by him. Dark eyes wide and hooded within his tanned, square face, his expression was impassive. Save the odd quirk of his lip as he gave her a doubtful once-over, he appeared positively bored.

"Are you injured?" she suddenly said, causing him give a derisive snort.

"Not particularly," he slowly replied, voice dropping. She couldn't tell whether if was from surprise or annoyance, though his expression slightly softened. "A bit worse for wear, but otherwise intact," he continued, glancing down to where her eyes traveled. "None of it's mine," he swallowed as his fingers gingerly brushed along one of the bloody spots upon his shirt.

"Good," she nodded as he opened the door the Gillette's quarters, "Anyone else?"

"Your superior is sewing up Midshipman Cavendish at the moment. He'll be mended and on the go again shortly I assume."

"I see," she slowly replied. Trying not to give in to the temptation to go down to the infirmary and threaten Cavendish with poisoning since he was currently in a rather vulnerable condition, she continued, "I, uh, missed your name-"

"Midshipman Kensington," he cut her off. "The prisoner," he suddenly snapped, jerking his head in the direction of the modest bed in the middle of Gillette's quarters, "She's in there."

"_She?"_ Kensington gave her a shrug before turning on his heel and disappearing down the hallway. "Well then," Christian said aloud as she approached the bed with mounting caution.

Gillette's cabin was small but comfortable, a private luxury afforded by being one of few ranking officers upon the _Dauntless_. A traveling chest sat at the foot of his humble bed, atop a rather richly decorated red and black rug of the orient. Above the wrought iron fire brazier along the opposite wall hung a watercolor painting of a city of some sort. Next to the grate was a small writing desk and modest, high-backed chair. A pot of ink with a quill at the ready rested on the desk next to a worn, leather ledger. Upon a shelf above the ledger were a few expensive, leather bound books. They were held in place by two golden sculptures of an apple bolted into the shelves, which served as book ends. Two lit black metal lanterns swayed from the rafters above. Overall, the room was spotless and well kept. Christian wasn't surprised at its state from what she knew of the ever thoughtful and diligent Gillette.

However, her attention quickly turned back to her patient. Lying in the bed was unconscious form of a small, flame-haired woman. From what Christian could gather, her mismatched clothes appeared like those of a buccaneer. Soaked clear through, the salt of the sea was beginning to crystallize along various bits of fabric and her drying skin. While not daintily pretty, her round face was handsome despite the wet, streaked white face powder running down her cheeks and neck. Skin pale freckled beneath the ruined powder, it proved unusually sallow in the poor light. As she was asleep, she could not tell the color of her eyes. She imagined they would be either blue or green, judging by her complexion.

Leaning over her, Christian frowned. She immediately noticed the dark spot of wet blood upon the blanket her patient lay upon. It looked as though it'd been hastily thrown over the bed for protection. Continuing to scan downwards, Christian gasped, a shudder passing through her; in the middle of the woman's left shin was a bloody, callow bone. Tearing straight through the skin at an almost 90 degree angle of horrifying reality, it was badly broken. Rivulets of blood were pouring down her leg, already beginning to soak the blanket through as well.

_Ah, explains why she's so pale,_ a distant part of her reeled as she bit back the urge to throw up her dinner at the sight. Taking a few deep breathes to steady herself and forcing her mind into the detached musings of a surgeon, she went to work. After all, she'd set enough broken bones to know she'd be occupied for at least the next few hours.

* * *

Christian felt herself being shaken awake, followed by a low command to not panic. Eyes fluttering open from where she sat in her chair next to the bed, she took in the blurry form of Gillette. Her grip on the dagger hidden in her coat pocket loosened as she gave him a sleepy nod of acknowledgement.

"Mr. Granner," he faintly grinned. Taking her by the wrist, he pulled her to her feet. She was still half asleep, causing her stumble forward. "I see you were hard at work on the prisoner," he continued. He was in a fresh coat and shirt, wig immaculate and tricorne freshly brushed. _As though for dinner,_ she distantly thought as she steadied herself. Forcing her legs to move in the now familiar motion with the ship, she rubbed her eyes.

"Forgive me," she yawned, "But what time is it?"

"After dinner, lad," Gillette replied, removing his hat and placing it on the trunk at the foot of bed. "You must be starving," he frowned.

"No…yes," she declared. "And you said 'prisoner?'"

"The pirate woman," he gestured at his bed, watching as Christian's gaze swept the room once more. "One doesn't have much in the way of possessions when one is an orphan," Gillette continued matter-of-factly in reply to her expression.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Wonder why I had so little in my quarters?" Gillette quietly said.

"Wait a moment," she muttered, "Groves and the Commodore said you parents were French Protestants who moved to Belfast. They were linen merchants-"

"Before they both died," he steadily replied.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I lost my parents at a young age as well," she said after a long while, "My mother when I was born, my father when I was eleven." She suddenly realized that it proved one of the few true facts of her past that she'd revealed to anyone onboard.

"Well thankfully I was a bit older when I lost my own," he distantly said. "In the meantime," he continued, voice returning back its usual tone of polite curiosity," Is there anything else you require?"

"I still haven't been able to get a clear answer as to what happened to her," Christian said, arching a brow.

"She fell overboard," Gillette snorted.

"Well, she can't be locked in the brig," she replied, her sleepiness immediately forgotten at the mention of imprisonment. "She broke her leg and lost quite a bit of blood. The conditions down there will surely lead to infection. And from what I understand, nothing is to be done until we arrive at an English port and she receives a trial-"

"Come now, I wasn't planning to kick her out," Gillette replied, lip curling with derision. "She may be a murderous criminal-"

"Murderous?" Christian replied, breath hitching in her throat.

"She slashed up Midshipman Cavendish pretty well." Gillette bit, "He'll be right as rain, though." She gave an admonished shrug as he began gathering up some of his things. "However, she remains a prisoner. So during her recuperation, she will be locked in my cabin…assuming she's alive?" he asked, glancing at the pirate's sleeping form.

"The laudanum," Christian yawned again, "I had to give her a rather heavy dose for the extensive stitching. She's not dead…yet."

"Well then," Gillette shrugged, "I'm having some of the cabin boys move me into Groves' quarters until she's well enough for the brig. How long will that be?"

"A fortnight to three weeks," Christian replied worrying her lip, "Though she will have to be looked after-"

"That will be your job, I expect," Gillette called out over his shoulder as he gathered his books. "Do be careful though, Mr. Granner. While there will be a guard every time you attend to her, I'm sure she'll attempt to use the standard in feminine wiles to escape. She's well aware that a quick drop and a short stop await her when we reach land. I'm sure she and her brother will no doubt try something-"

"Her brother?"

"She's one of the Scarlett Twins. They specialize in defrauding ships under various false colours and with false Letters of Marque. Not to mention the usual rum running and smuggling. They tried to take the _Dauntless_, bloody idiots. As though James would fall for it," he smirked. "Anyway, once the rest of crew saw the goose had turned, they abandoned them after she fell overboard and her brother leapt over to save her. He's currently gracing the brig."

"So when do we get to next Port?" Christian replied, "We're on the open seas."

"That is an answer only the Commodore knows," Gillette replied, moving to answer the knock to the door. Three cabin boys appeared, waiting to gather up Gillette's belongings for his move to Groves' quarters. "Well," the Lieutenant said, "In the meantime, you may want to get some dinner before the galley's closed. Good night, Mr. Granner."

"Lieutenant Gillette," she saluted. Making her way out the room, she couldn't help looking back at the sleeping form of the pirate woman.

* * *

Staring down into the water mirror sitting upon the small desk next her bed in her quarters, Anamaria muttered a curse. Especially as she witnessed the iron bars of the brig slam shut behind Muse. Dropping a handful of burned rice into the water with disgust, she automatically arched back as the usual flame of red fire licked up from the bowl. Chanting, she gripped the sides of it until the flame died down.

"They be clapped by Jaime then?" Jack forlornly murmured from the doorway. Startled, she glanced up from her seat. Nodding in confirmation, she jumped to her feet, quickly dumping the water out of the port window and into the sea.

"No thanks to you," she snit, which only caused him to reach out and lay a hand on her arm.

"They knew the risks when they took it on," Jack declared with a steady gaze. Though she rolled her eyes, she couldn't help but nod in agreement.

"You know, you can't keep that bluecoat at bay forever, Jack," Anamaria muttered, gaze boring into his. "This one ain't gonna be trifled with. He ain't daft in the slightest."

"Well-"

"_Jack!" _she hissed. Gritting his teeth, he worriedly rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Fine then," she continued, "Looks like I'll be asking Tia Dalma for some help and whatnot.

Giving a dismissive wave, Jack's demeanor suddenly switched back to its usual one of half-drunken, mischievous deception. "Now," he smirked, withdrawing and leaning haphazardly against the doorway, "I need me best navigator at the wheel, eh? Jaime will be distracted for only a quick bit and we need to get to Persia. I need more supplies 'afore I go after me key." She silently nodded as she roughly brushed passed him, heading up to the top deck and relieving Gibbs at the wheel.

"Eh, he almost had you back there, Cap'n!" Gibbs called out before taking a long swig from the beaten leather flask hanging around his neck.

"Almost. But I'm standin' here, plain as day, ain't I?" Jack darkly chuckled as he casually glanced at the wheel. Anamaria only gave him a look of warning. Especially as he moved the wheel a few degrees north.

"My bearings is fine!" she snapped, dark eyes narrowed, "And like Gibbs said, he almost had ye! You're gettin' too damned cocky, Jack."

"And you worry _far_ too much, love" he snorted. Reaching out to caress her shoulder, he immediately thought the better of it at her sharp gaze. "Eh, he almost had me," he shrugged, stumbling away from her.

"We need to hit another port, as we didn't get the supplies we intended to in Nassau," she ordered. "After that, you get me my ship to replace the _Interceptor_ and I'm gone from yer troublin' ways, understand?"

"Of course, my dear Maria-"

"Anna Maria."

"Aye, 'tis a pretty name!" She rolled her eyes yet again. However, she couldn't hide a quick grin as she turned to wheel, leading them into a faster current.

Jack suddenly scrambled along the quarter deck, eyes alight with a new idea. "We can make landfall in Cape Verde in just over a week-"

"I can't be millin' about the capital over in Praia," she bit, "Slave trade and whatnot," she growled with disgust.

"Well, you can stay onboard when we take on supplies then," Jack nodded, "But you'll need to step on some solid land to send out your callings to Tia, seeing that's she's bound to earth now."

"Boa Vista's just north of Praia. It be pretty deserted, as it's the last island of the Cape. I can do it from there."

"Good 'en," Jack chuckled, heading to the door. Suddenly pausing, he spun around to face her again. "Anna Maria, darling-"

"Aye?" she retorted.

"What exactly do you planning asking Tia for? We can still outrun Jaime, you know."

"No, _we_ can't," she declared, fixing him with an impenetrable stare over the wheel. "You're gonna need something bigger. Something Tia can command, too."

"Eh?" he questioned, rubbing along his rough, unshaved chin, "Don't know I've got anything 'o value to pay 'er off with."

"Aye, you do. Or at least you will once you get your key from Ammand-"

"The chest be mine!" Jack sharply snorted, dark gaze narrowing and dangerous. "I be the one who needs it most, savvy?"

"To save your arse," she retorted, "Thing is, you get clapped by that Commodore, you're dead anyway. So you can either hand over the heart to Tia later, or risk gettin' your precious Pearl blown all to the pieces. 'Cause that bloody Commodore will be catchin' up with ya again. And soon."

"Bloody hell," Jack sighed, closing his eyes and leaning against the mast. Eyes snapping open, he gave her a haphazard wave, smile suddenly gracing his features. "Hanging's a bad way to go, love. So go on and send your messages to the good 'ole Tia. Meantime, like I said, what will you be askin' her for on me behalf?"

Smirking, Anna Maria set her mouth into a hard line of defiance, eyes narrowed and almost impossibly dark.

"Let's just say Tia's gonna whip us a bit 'o a storm, Jack."


	11. A Storm on the Horizon

"Well, ye certainly be a fine-boned, boy," Maye chuckled, lidded gaze taking in the doctor's apprentice. Christian shrugged as she buzzed about the room, preparing to check the progress of her patient's broken leg. The pirate was still weakened from blood loss from her accident. Her movement had been genuinely slow and groggy for the week she'd been aboard. "Still playing silent, love?" Maye muttered.

"I do have a name," Christian retorted, glancing over her shoulder as she mashed together a poultice at Gillette's writing desk. Maye was still too injured to move from his now-guarded quarters.

"Well, you never use mine," Maye trilled, "So why I start usin' yours, eh?"

"I don't know your name," Christian sniffed with an unnecessarily haughty expression.

"Ye never asked, boy," the pirate hoarsely chuckled before gritting her teeth in pain. Hearing her indrawn breathe and speedily making her way to her side, Christian wiped down the gaping wound on her shin where the bone had broken through during the initial injury. Swabbing it with a bit of alcohol for cleanliness, it irritated a nerve in Maye's leg, causing the pirate to grimace. But at least there was less the chance of infection settling in. "It's 'Maye' by the way…_Jesus BLOODY CHRIST!_" she screeched, gripping at the sheets of the bed.

"Forgive me," Christian blanched as she immediately stopped re-stitching the wound. "I expect the laudanum has yet take affect," she tersely replied, swallowing down the bile rising in her throat as her patient began to bleed out yet again. The absence of the bone punctured through the skin allowed the red liquid to spill forth anew. Blood began trailing down her leg in rivulets, forcing Christian to wipe it again. Maye's fingernails dug into the mattress as Christian softly tapped on the newly set bone.

It'd been just over a week since they'd captured the Scarlett Twins. As a result of resetting the broken bone, Christian was changing Maye's stitches to ensure the wound wouldn't fester. Nodding with satisfaction that the swelling had significantly lessened, she quickly rewashed it with soap-soaked rag. Outside of her continued discomfort for bodily fluids, Henry trusted her enough to handle this patient. The Doctor's lessons being the only diversion, she took to her surgeon's task with surprising enthusiasm. "It should heal straight," she continued, "And you shouldn't have a limp if you stay off of it as much as possible over the next two to three months."

"Oh, I'll think the noose will have me 'afore then," Maye snorted with lopsided grin. Despite her cavalier response, her forehead was beaded with sweat, her face red and cheeks puffed as she tried to take deep breaths. Christian did not reply, though she fed another small spoonful of Laudanum to the pirate.

"To put you out a bit more when I begin stitching you up again," she replied to Maye's arched brow.

"More like to kill me-"

"My stitching is highly precise, leaving little in the way of a scar," Christian flatly retorted, surprised at how much offense she took. After all, her stitches were uncannily similar to her embroidery in her previous life. "Therefore, it takes a lot longer than usual to complete the task," she continued, "Believe me, Miss Maye, if the Commodore wanted you dead, he wouldn't have bothered to fish you from the sea-"

"Wouldn't want to rob him of my long drop and short stop, now would we?" Maye bitterly cut her off, though her words were beginning to slur.

"From what I understand, you shall receive a trial. That should be satisfaction."

"Bloody hell, you're a naïve little blighter, ain't ye?" Maye spat with rising disgust. "Eh, it might be a trial, but it ain't gonna be a fair one. None of it is since the bluecoats be behind them all."

"Bluecoats?"

"Yeah," Maye mocked, "Bluecoats," she spat, "What our type be callin' your navy type."

"I am not part of the navy, as I am a surgeon's apprentice," Christian uncomfortably countered.

"Guilty by association and whatnot. At least that's they way you bloody bluecoats judge us!" Maye snapped, causing Christian to start and loose her place as she began threading her stitching needle again.

"You'll be a bit dulled in about ten minutes," she quietly replied after a long while. Shoving down the uncomfortable feeling of hypocrisy beginning to creep over her at the pirate's definition of how his Majesty designated pirates, she threaded the needle. Maye eyed her for a bit, watching her actions closely. Inexplicably, Christian blushed, stomach beginning to churn as the pirate's eyes narrowed in examination.

"Ye _do _be a rather fine-boned boy," the pirate drawled. Without warning, her hand snaked out and clasped Christian's. She froze, forcing her expression to remain impassive as Maye's mouth curled into a lazy smile.

"I see the laudanum has begun to take its affect," she steadily declared, vainly trying to wretch herself out of Maye's surprisingly strong grasp.

"Oh, don't be blaming it on that devil's concoction," Maye slurred. "Tell me, boy, how much do ye be makin' aboard this grand ship?" Christian pointedly ignored her as she yanked herself from her hand and went back to threading the needle. "I betcha it's a lot less than the worth of one of my hairsticks, yeah?" Maye continued, fingers fumbling through her twisted, fiery hair. Removing an intricately carved golden chopstick, the top of which was inlaid with a rather impressive ruby, she shoved it into Christian's hands. "Surely, 'tis the right price for a longboat and a bit 'o supplies?" she grinned, icy blue eyes sparkling in the dim light. "I'm sure this ring," she flexed her fingers, showing her golden ring that was also inlaid with a small ruby, "Could buy the key to the brig s'well?"

Christian eyed the ring upon Maye's left index finger as she held the chopstick in her other hand. _Surely, it is plenty to buy passage and supplies when you land in the next port_, she mused with a heavy sigh. Who knew how soon they'd catch up to this Sparrow character? They were in the middle of Atlantic and thousands of miles away from the American colonies. Which was where she needed to be in order to track down her cousin, Major-General Edward Vernon, the true heir of Beldrake Castle. Only God could divine how long it would take to venture back on course. She'd been onboard this bloody ship for the better part of two months. And away from Beldrake for roughly seven months.

Lord almighty, she missed home.

Sneaking both pirates off the ship wouldn't be too difficult when they made the next landfall in Cape Verde. She knew the schedules of the various guards outside the room. Usually, there was a good 20 minutes between their watches. More often than not in the middle of night when she would come to check on her patient, they were fast asleep in front of the door. Which was why she wore the key to the quarters around her neck. Not to mention the key to brig always hung outside the door that led below decks. A longboat would hardly be missed. She could always claim the pirate overpowered her. It would most likely never be questioned; everyone assumed she was but a relatively mild-mannered boy with no combat experience. Mostly that was true, outside of her almost nightly lessons with the Commodore-

_Norrington_.

"Heck, I'll even take ya along with me, mate," Maye sleepily chuckled, interrupting her thoughts, "We ain't got a surgeon onboard and we get torn up plenty 'nough to need one. The smuggling turns a tidy little profit. You'll make more in a bit 'o months than ye would in two years aboard this hulk 'o ship."

"The _Dauntless_ is a first rated ship of the line," Christian heard herself tersely reply, "It's the fastest one of the Caribbean fleet."

"Eh, that's why you've all captured Sparrow, innit?" Maye innocently replied. Christian flinched. She knew enough about the illustrious Captain Jack Sparrow from the dinners she attended with Gillette, Groves, Henry and the Commodore to know that he proved exceedingly wily. If anything, they'd all underestimated him. Which was why they were still on the chase.

_I can't disappoint __them…especially James…__**the Commodore**_.

She was too alarmed of her own feelings to delve deeper into why his potential disappointment mattered so bloody much to her end game. _Why should he matter?! It's imperative you find your cousin in the colonies…_

"I believe you dropped this, Miss Maye," she sharply said, placing the chopstick next to the pirate's hand. "Be sure not to do it again," she commanded, icy blue gaze boring into her patient's. Maye only shook her head and chuckled, though she quickly shoved the chopstick back into her mass of twisted curls.

"Ah, you navy types," she grinned, even as she rolled her eyes, "Ain't no sunrises among none of ya." Christian would've given a reply, but within a few moments, Maye was asleep from the effects of the laudanum. After quickly and precisely stitching up her leg, Christian quickly turned on her heel and left, her earlier temptations uncomfortably shoved to the back of her mind.

* * *

"You're in a rather frightful mood, Mr. Granner," Norrington declared later that night. He arched his sword high only to swiftly thrust downward. But Christian quickly sidestepped him, spinning on her heel and zigzagging backward. "Very good," he intoned with a hint of sarcasm at her silence, "You're finally getting faster. And it's only taken approximately six weeks to see any sort of improvement. Well done, boy." Arching a brow as she grunted in response, he barely escaped her follow-up blow. Feigning left only to charge to the right, she effectively parried him. Knowing his comment was only a method to distract her, she withdrew and waited for him to strike.

They were undertaking their usual sparring, as they had for last six weeks or so. Near the stern of the ship, they were isolated and away from the other crew or any watchful eyes. Not that there were many people about. The bells had just rung, signaling the 9th hour of the night. Outside of the watch, most everyone else had turned in.

"Fine," Norrington retorted as she said nothing, "Remain mute, Mr. Granner. It's not as though the supposed problems of a sullen apprentice are any of my concern." Giving a satisfied huff as her eyes widened in hurt, he used the opening to strike hard and fast. Matching her glare, he gave her little mercy and forced her backward until she almost fell backwards into high pile of crates. She was effectively boxed in. However, she zipped to the side as he raised his arm for proverbial death blow. Using her shorter stature and speed to dart to the right, her footwork was rapid and usually graceful. Almost as though undertaking the complicated steps of a quadrille rather than defending her position. It worked though, and he immediately found his sword hit nothing but the air.

"Hmph. It looks as though you've improved a _bit_," he breathed with genuine surprise. "You may not be as strong as a full-grown man, boy. But you've certainly adapted in using your speed to your advantage."

Chest rising and falling with exertion, she still didn't say a word. Ignoring the sweat dripping into her eyes, she speedily shrugged. Gaze darting back and forth and looking for an opening, she thought she found one.

But she was mistaken.

Within two minutes, he had her by the forearm. Her back crashing against mizzen mast and sending a shock up pain racing up her spine, she immediately found his sword under her throat. "And with that, I win," he briefly declared, "Again."

"Not so much, sir," she flatly retorted. Her eyes darting downwards, Norrington followed her gaze, only to let out a hiss of retort. For at his stomach was her dagger. Like her sword, it was also inherited from one of the deceased midshipmen with no family to send his possessions to. They'd began practicing with it a month into her sessions. Soon, she found she quickly appreciated its flair for underhanded results. She also speedily learned that it allowed the Commodore to constantly get the drop on her, even more so than when he only operated with his sword. For despite being right-handed, he proved highly proficient with his left hand as well.

Well, outside of her rare success this time.

"So we've killed each other," Norrington declared with fleeting humor. "Good show, Granner. You have apparently taken quite a liking to the dagger," he nodded, withdrawing and saluting her with is sword. "Now, what's wrong with you?"

"Pardon me?"

"You've been staring proverbial daggers at me all night, no pun intended," he sniffed, watching as she sheathed her dagger and sword. Gesturing for her to sit beside him on some stacked crates just below the mizzen, he continued, "Not to mention, I've been sparring with a mute for the last hour or so. Out with it already."

"I'd rather not," she muttered, glancing away and looking up at the sky to study the stars. Thankfully, the clouds were scattered and silvery, the night relatively clear. However, the moon was only a third full. She was glad it was so dark out. It cast him in half shadow and she didn't wish to be distracted by his questioning gaze. There was also the rather disturbing fact that his eyes were so mesmerizingly green, as she'd been noticing more and more often. Shrugging, she didn't continue, save worrying her lip a bit.

"I have all night, Mr. Granner," he airily retorted. Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his seat a bit and relaxed against the mast.

"How can you work without sleep?" she groused.

"I've been in the navy for close to 20 years, boy. Needless to say, I've had much in the way of practice. Now sit," he gestured at the crate next to him. She did as told, though she angled her body away from him. Silence fell between them until he arched a brow. Tiny noises of sniffling suddenly punctuated the air. Clearing his throat, he looked away from his charge, though his handkerchief appeared in front of her reddened eyes. She silently took it, dabbing at her nose a bit.

"Do you ever miss home?" she all but squeaked.

"Ah, homesickness," he sighed, "And now we have an explanation to your sudden change in demeanor," he knowingly grinned for a moment. "As for that distant ache in your heart, well, I don't think on it," he steadily replied. "As I said, Mr. Granner, the navy has had me for near 20 years, since I was eleven. Such is the fate of a third son without much in the way of an inheritance." Doing some quick mental calculations, she determined he had to be around 30 or so as he continued. "If one knows nothing else of home outside of a vague memory of an estate somewhere in Gloucestershire, the lack of it doesn't sting. I write my brothers and sisters constantly, as they do me," he breathed. Swiftly collecting himself, he shrugged, "Outside of that, I do not need too much else."

"I see," she slowly said, "But what if one has no one with which to correspond?"

"You are alone in the world?" Her silence and yearning expression gave him his answer. "Such is the way of fate, unfortunately," he slowly began, "Yet, I can see where others need more reassurance. Which is why many men use the camaraderie of those onboard to substitute for family. Learn to make friends in the navy, Mr. Granner, and they shall be yours for life." She nodded as she passed him back his handkerchief. They sat in silence for a while longer, until she rose from her seat.

The corner of his mouth turning upwards in a faint grin, he stood and saluted her with his sword. "So shall we begin, Mr. Granner?"

"I am yours to command, Commodore," she declared, expression brighter. Saluting only jump back as he lunged into an attack, she effectively parried his stroke.

And so they sparred into the night.

* * *

Praia was the largest, most affluent city in Cape Verde. A main stop on the trade routes linking Africa, Europe and the New World, its citizens saw no reason to leave its confines. As a result, Boa Vista Island, just north of Praia, was virtually deserted. All the better for Sparrow and what he was about to undertake.

As the _Black Pearl_dropped anchor just off the coast of Boa Vista, only two figures climbed down into the longboat. "I'll be back in 'bouts an hour!" Anamaria called out while Gibbs began rowing them to shore. Giving her a grim nod, Jack watched as they docked at the beach and made their way inland, past the thick brush on the shore. Though he knew they wouldn't venture far, he remained at the rails as they disappeared into the undergrowth. Rubbing his chin a bit and scratching along his neck in the usual nervous habit, he finally ventured below deck to his cabin.

Anamaria needed to remain close to the ocean in order to call on her former mistress. Soon, she and Gibbs found a small clearing about a quarter-mile inland from the beach.

"Alrighty, lass, no one's about," Gibbs said as he finished setting up. "Do…whatever it is you…do," he muttered as he made multiple, rapid signs of cross.

Used to his superstitions, Anamaria shrugged as he clutched his sword and pistol at the ready. Ensuring his back was to her, he kept steady watch for any intruders as she begin stripping off her clothes. Placing them tidily on a tree stump, she was nude as she sat down on a worn blanket in the middle of the upside down star she'd drawn into the dirt of the clearing. At each point was a different colored candle representing the four elements, as well as a black candle for herself at the head of the star. Silver divining bowl sitting in between her crossed legs and half full with seawater and a satchel of various spices, she cast her gaze to the sky.

Beginning to chant, she lit the water with a torch, causing the spices floating upon its surface to flare up. Immediately, the flames atop of the water began to inexplicably burn higher. Melding from orange to bright blue, the center of it blended into emerald green as its core flamed ever-upwards. Despite the bright sunlight of the late afternoon, the scattered white clouds in the sky began swirling about, grey and misty. They darkened with each passing moment, the wind whistling within their churning maw. Within a few moments, Anamaria's melodic voice rose and fell in time with the flicker of the flames upon the water in the bowl.

From where he stood outside of the star, Gibbs shivered as the wind stirred around them. Whipping up grains of sand and bits of leaves, it spun faster and faster, in time with the flame. However, despite the dark quickly descending upon the clearing, he remained on alert. Especially as Anamaria began muttering in her "Devil's Tongue," as the old sailor called it. It was all gibberish to him. But while Gibbs feared its power whenever she undertook her witchery, he knew she was oblivious to all else during her trance. So as such, it was his current duty to protect her while she was in such a state of…_distraction_.

All at once, Anamaria went stock still. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she shielded herself from the warm wind that blew anew through the clearing. Her chanting became louder and louder, voice ebbing and flowing as black mist rose from the divining bowl to join the misty gray sky. Suddenly, her mouth snapped shut and she fell silent. The flames in front of her now burned to faded blue and green, their flickering uncannily like the waves of the ocean. Black hair fluttering around her, her eyes snapped open. Rather than their usual dark brown, they reflected shade and shadow, as black as the sky above them.

She saw nothing, save the faint outline of Tia Dalma in her home, thousands of miles across the Atlantic in the Caribbean.

"I see I taught me apprentice well," Tia Dalma's voice whispered across Anamaria's thoughts. Its smoky sound caressed her skin, much like the warm wind gusting about her. However, Anamaria shivered, the power of the elements dancing through her very bones and blood. Projecting oneself halfway around the world required a depth of knowledge she'd only recently tapped into. It took all of her resolve ensure she didn't destroy herself in the complex undertaking.

"Jack bids you well, mistress," she sighed, bowing her head with respect.

"I see" Tia Dalma sniffed, though her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "And how do you be, 'Lil One?" Staring at the shimmering outline of Anamaria that now appeared in her kitchen, Tia Dalma reached forward. Though her hand fell through the ghostly shade of her former apprentice, Anamaria could feel the comforting touch of the witch's hand upon her brow. Immediately she relaxed a bit. For now the power of Tia Dalma flowed through her as well, making her endeavor that much more easy.

"The same as ever," Anamaria replied with a distant grin, "Though I be better when Sparrow give me my ship he be owin' me."

"Same 'ole Jack," Tia Dalma cackled. "So what do ye Devil 'o the Seas be wantin' now, eh?"

"A storm, m'lady. Biggest one you may be whippin' up with out killin' us. For escape-"

"From Jaime?"

"Who?" Anamaria frowned.

"That marble-nosed Commodore that be on yer asses!" Tia Dalma cackled. Abruptly shifting moods, her expression became stern. Rising from what Anamaria knew was a chair in her kitchen, she nodded in dismay. "'Tis impossible to do, love."

Gritting her teeth, Anamaria bowed her head in respect again. A signal that Tia Dalma's denial was not the thing that vexed her. "What if Jack be havin' somethin' to trade for it?" she breathed.

"And what could he possibly offer _me?_" Tia Dalma sniffed, "That compass I gave him long ago ain't got nothing more valuable than it."

Drawing herself so that she sat as tall as possible, Anamaria closed her eyes. "He knows where the heart be."

"The heart?"

"Aye," Anamaria swallowed, "_The _heart. The one belongin' to da one ye once lov-"

"Enough!" Tia Dalma ordered, eyes wild and expression peaked as she raised a hand of disbelief. Taking a few deep breaths and scratching at her palms, her shoulders shook a bit before she stilled. "'Lil One," she sighed, though her expression remained hard and unconvinced, "Ya know I always be lovin' ya as me own."

"I be truly blessed by ye regard," Anamaria quietly replied with a grateful dip of her head.

"But even ye cannot escape my wrath if you be tellin' me falsehoods!"

Nodding with emphatic agreement, Anamaria placed her hands upon her knees, palms upward in a sign of surrender. "I swear upon me life that I only relay what Jack be relayin' to me. _I _don not seek to mislead ya, Madame. But I admit I cannot say the same for Jack. He say that outside of the original owner, he alone knows the location of the chest. However, he do not have da means to unlock it, though he will find that soon enough."

Rolling her eyes, Tia Dalma didn't bother to hold back a low cackle of doubt. "He must in some desperate means to be callin' upon me so soon again. Haven't I already helped him 'nough?!" she retorted with a dismissive wave, "What can he do for me, aye?"

"It be almost 10 years since the _Pearl _be raised from the depths," Anamaria flatly said, "He knows the clock be tickin'-"

"His soul be next," Tia Dalma muttered, arching a brow as she took in this new bit of information. Crossing her arms, she leaned back in her chair, staring at Anamaria's shade. Squaring her shoulders, Anamaria continued to sit as still as she could manage. Though it seemed to last for hours, Tia Dalma's silence was only for a few moments.

"Tell Jack that I agree to his terms," Tia Dalma slowly began, "He be gettin' his storm. In exchange, he has a season to bring me the heart. However…it must be in the chest with the accompanying key. And if he fails," she leaned forward, face twisting with a wicked, slow smile, "Well." Without warning, she pressed her hand to into the center of Anamaria's shade. As Tia Dalma's fingers tightened their grip, the pirate gasped at the abrupt, paralyzing shock tearing through her.

It seemed as though her heart was cleaved in two. Clenching her eyes shut, her chest rose and fell, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. Blood churning faster and hotter, it rushed through her. Roaring in her ears and causing her limbs to tingle, her skin became drenched with sweat. Eyes snapping open and as black as Death, they saw nothing, save flashes of light undulating in time with the wretched pain. It stretched over her every pore as her mouth fell open. Convulsing, she struggled to hold a back a scream.

Just as quickly, Tia Dalma unhanded her. Slumping over and body still shaking, Anamaria gasped for breath. Hand flying to her chest, she flinched and immediately dropped it, for her skin burned like a sword put to fire. However, Tia Dalma reached out again, her fingers pressing upon her brow. Almost instantly, the pirate was comforted again. But every sense of what had just passed was now firmly imprinted upon her memory.

"I know I be hurtin' ye somethin' fierce, 'Lil One," Tia Dalma murmured as she withdrew, "But it serves its purpose. Now, you must touch Jack upon your return to him. He shall feel the same, and what passed between me and you will move unto him, though only for a moment. It shall be my warnin'; for if he plays me false, he shall suffer what I have done unto you. Though it will be a hundred fold. And within The Locker!"

Anamaria silently nodded. Clasping her palms together, she bowed her head. "It shall be done."

"And so shall his storm." Grinning, Tia Dalma furiously flared her hands. At that that, she quickly faded from Anamaria's sight. "I will be watchin' ye," she whispered.

Taking a deep breath, Anamaria stumbled to her feet. Spinning about three times, she dumped the divining bowl out over her left shoulder. After quickly dressing, she let out a bird call whistle, immediately grateful to see Gibbs quickly appear out of the brush.

"Ye be in good humor, lass?" Gibbs worriedly replied, brow furrowed as she all but collapsed into his side. "Shouldn't be messin' with the divine," he muttered, though he slung a helpful arm about her shoulders and pulled her up next to him. "I hope it be worth it," he said more loudly as she fixed him with a blank stare.

"Aye," she steadily replied, "We gotta get a move on. Important news. For Jack." With that, they slowly made their way back to the beach and into the longboat. Rowing back, they were soon aboard the _Black Pearl_.

"Bloody be-Jesus, I know what'en that look means," Jack shook his head with dismay as Anamaria tersely motioned for him to follow her.

"Ya ain't be knowin' the half of it," she sneered at they made their down to his cabin. "Tia Dalma will grant yer request and you will be havin' ye storm," she darkly uttered. Watching as he clapped his hands with glee and did a jig about the cabin for a moment, she let out of hiss of retort. As his celebration continued, she slid down into the chair on the other side of his cluttered desk. Taking a long sip of rum from a bottle sitting on a stack of maps in front of her, she snatched it away from his outreached hand. "She ain't lettin' ya off free, Jack. If ye fail to give her the chest in a season, you shall pay."

"Come again, love?" he snickered as she drew up her tattered sleeve.

"Gimme yer hand!"

Soon, Jack was well aware of the consequences of any future attempted deception of the Goddess.


	12. The End of Deceit

**Early August, 1717**

Despite her lack of sleep, Christian could hardly contain her enthusiasm. Watching as the _Dauntless_ docked in the port of Ribeira Grande on Santo Antão Island within Cape Verde, she sighed in relief.

_Land at last!_ she beamed. Blinking against the early morning sun, she impatiently paced the deck. Happily jangling the gold coins in her pocket that Henry surprisingly saw fit to pay her for her service so far, she was bursting with impatience for landfall. After about a half-hour or so, the men were finally queued up and ready to disembark. Nimbly climbing down the rope ladder after what seemed an age, she jumped into a waiting longboat. Henry made his way behind her, along with a few other midshipmen. Among the many longboats ahead of them, they were the first group allowed onshore.

Cape Verde was the first stop after the open seas of the Atlantic. From there, they would patrol the shores of western and northern Africa in pursuit of Sparrow. Since re-supply would take quite some time for a ship as large as the _Dauntless_, they were forced to stay in port for two nights and three days. As a result, Norrington split the crew into two groups. One group would have the first day's leave, returning to the ship by the 7th hour of the day two. The second group would take their day's leave once the first group returned, reporting back to the ship by sundown on the third day. Then, they would set sail on the dawn of the fourth day. As Henry and Christian were for all intentions considered part of the officers' group, they were assigned to the first day's leave.

"Visit the bathhouse, bed a whore, buy supplies, and refill your personal liquor rations. All in that order!" Henry whooped earlier as he and Christian gathered a few necessary belongings from their quarters. Upon hearing the announcement of landfall, his mood went from generally pleasant to utterly ecstatic. His disposition infectious, Christian couldn't help it as her face positively lit up with a carefree smile. Even as she blushed at his second order of business,

"Dear God, I haven't had a real bath since I've been aboard!" she sighed with contentment.

Fear of being caught caused her to significantly reduce bathing down to every few days. She grew especially rank during her monthly cycles, which were difficult enough to conceal. Not to mention, most of the non-officers aboard weren't afforded facilities for constant bathing either. So when she could, she was forced to wash using a sponge and seawater from the pitcher and basin their quarters. Usually from behind the screen dividing her cot from the rest of the room. And always when Henry dined with the other officers. Hence, a real, private bath on shore would be downright luxurious.

"Come!" Henry all but ordered as they docked the longboat. Dragging her from up the dock by her wrist, he nodded in the direction of the crowded quay. The bustling streets were not so different from the docks of Port Royal. The crowd comprised of the usual mish-mash of sailors, merchants, prostitutes, beggar children and the servants out shopping for their masters, they moved along at a languid pace. Mostly due to the numerous people wandering about. The stifling humidity significantly slowed things down as well.

"Whorehouse!" Henry crowed, still pulling Christian with him. Despite her shock at his declaration, she had little choice but the follow him. She certainly didn't want to get separated in unfamiliar territory.

They wandered for a mere ten minutes or so until they made they made their way a few blocks from the docks. Finally, they stopped at a two story building. It appeared well-aged, its brick walls covered with ivy. But it still looked in good repair. The black roof tiles were laid out in an orderly fashion, the heavy, wooden door on the front painted a vibrant red. Its handle and knocker appeared to be of solid gold, signaling its apparent finery. The white steps leading up the front were swept clean and tidy. Framed by white paladin columns that were rounded with well-manicured vines of red and white roses, it could have been mistaken for a rather fine townhome. However, the various women draped across its black, wrought-iron balconies along the second floor destroyed that illusion. Half-dressed and seeming to hail from all ports of the world, they called out with lewd promises to any passersby.

Thoroughly scandalized, Christian vainly tried to hide her discomfort. Looking around the street, she took note that they'd wandered into the district meant for such diversions. This house wasn't even the largest on the block, though it was sizable. Still stunned, she allowed Henry to pull her up the steps and into the front parlor. The air within was filled with the smell of heavy perfume, which made her nose itch. To their left was a tall, dark wood desk. Behind it was an older woman, in her mid 40s. Diminutive in stature, her outrageously ornate wig decorated with multicolored, silken bows made up for her lack of height. White and tightly curled about her ears, it was heavily powdered, as was her face. Lips and cheeks red with rouge, she'd pasted a small beauty mark the shape of a heart just to the right of her thin lips. It did well in distracting from her hooked nose. Yet her eyes were mesmerizing, green with flecks of gold scattered throughout the irises.

As soon as Henry strolled up, her verdant gaze came alight with the possibility of a new customer. Leaning forward and running a confident finger along his cheek, she cooed in a heavy accent, "And how may I best assist you, good sir?" Her golden gown shot through with navy threads, it was cut so low that it threatened to expose her nipples with every heave of her chest.

"Signora di Meazzo," Henry took off his black feathered tricorne and gave her a low, surprisingly respectful bow, "Word of your girls' talents have come to me. And so, here I am."

"Ah, the gentleman knows of my reputation it seems?" the Italian smirked. "So you come with a recommendation?"

"Aye, from Ensign Whitley, of majesty's finest ship of the line, the _Dauntless,"_he breezily declared. Christian vaguely remembered the young man. He looked to have no more than 16 years to him, barely a year younger than her. Slim, his sun-bleached hair constantly in disarray from his nervous habit of fumbling with his tricorne. His dark brown eyes also always seemed half-lidded with sleep. Most of the time, he loitered about the poop deck with the signal officers, learning their duties.

The Signora's smile broadened even more at Henry's words. Scanning the black, leather bound book she perused, she nodded and pointed at a few names. "Some of your comrades have arrived ahead of you."

"Well, one always wants to make the best impression," Henry chuckled, running a hand down his freshly pressed, light blue silk overcoat. "Not to mention, my friend here," he threw an arm around Christian's shoulders.

She nervously swallowed, struggling to get out of Henry's embrace. "I…we don't have to-"

"Oh yes we _do!"_ he gave her a lewd wink. It caused her cheeks to turn red as she stammered in further protest.

Gaze flicking over Christian, Signora di Meazzo looked thoroughly unphased, save a brief smile that came to her lips. "Oh, poor dear!" she purred, coming out from behind the desk. Apparently, she'd been standing on a platform of some sort, as she was even smaller. She barely reached up to Christian's shoulder. Lifting up her skirts with both hands and revealing her bright yellow stockings, she smirked and stretched out a leg, "Perhaps the little virgin would like a peek?"

Christian would've laughed at the sight, what with her actually being a girl and all. But the onslaught of the fact that she was currently standing an actual _whorehouse_ set her nerves on edge. In her old life, such a thing would've doomed her reputation beyond utter repair. "I um," she continued to stammer, "Would it be possible…to just get a…bit to eat…and a…bath?"

"No girl for you then, _signore?"_ the Signora guffawed, arching a knowing brow. Looking her up and down again, she cocked her head to the side. "Perhaps our little officer prefers the company a comely boy?" Christian literally did a spit take, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as the Signora let out another braying laugh. "There, there, young one," she licentiously grinned, "Nothin' to be ashamed of here; men have all _sorts_of cravings, eh? A boy will set you back a bit more though…"

"Not…not my cup tea," Christian strangled. "I just want a bath…if you would be so kind."

Shooting her a look of disbelief, Henry let out a snort and threw up his hands in surrender. "What, you worried you can't afford it?" he declared. "If that's the case, I can always lend you the funds."

"I assure you that is not the issue," Christian adamantly shook her head. Out to corner of her eye, she could see a woman with dark skin the color of sweetened coffee and hazel eyes sidle up next her. Dressed in silk lilac colored gown, while her face was not powdered, she wore rouge and her lips were painted red. Black, deeply curly hair loose about her shoulders, her angular features were sharp and beautiful.

"Awww, he's as innocent as a babe!" she drawled, lightly scratching her nails down Christian's arm. Her accent had tinges of Spanish around its edges. But Christian was distracted as she dropped her head to her chest. Thankfully, she'd tightly wrapped down her breasts before she departed the _Dauntless_. Still, she hoped the other woman didn't pay too close attention. "Let me take care of 'im, Signora," she flashed the Madame a bright smile.

"I really don't think-"

"Lady Omarra wouldn't hurt a fly _piccolo,_" the Madame slyly retorted to Christian's denial. Taking Christian's hand and dropping it in Lady Omarra's, she pushed them towards the winding stairway further into the parlor.

Christian felt herself beginning to panic. This whole endeavor was quickly turning disastrous, and she had no desire to be trapped on this island should her true sex be found out. No doubt, Norrington would leave her behind to fend for herself for her deception. Assuming the other sailors didn't kill her first. Not to mention how hurt Henry would be at her betrayal. Yet, before she realized what was happening, she was at the top of the stairs. Within seconds, Omarra shoved her into one of the bedrooms. While it could only fit a small bed, a desk and a chair, the window was large, nearly floor to ceiling. Filled with real glass and covered with gauzy, white curtains, it admittedly cast pretty waves of sunlight along the black and white stripped wallpaper of the walls. But the grunts and groans of sex going on in other parts of the house echoed off the walls.

She was utterly mortified.

"So," Omarra purred, hands on her hips and dipping her head to the side in appraisal, "The Signora said some mentionin' that you are a virgin, love?"

"Y-yes," Christian replied. Well, it was one thing she wasn't lying about.

Omarra lightly laughed, "Well you're in luck, sweetness." Sashaying over to Christian, she grabbed her by the hands. Pressing a kiss along her fingertips only to suck her thumb into her mouth, Omarra rolled her tongue about it with sinful delight. Coyly looking up through her eyelashes to see the supposed boy blinking rapidly as his cheeks colored, she seductively hummed, "Your kind are my favorites. Such innocence and such," she lightly ran a hand along Christian's jaw, "_Fervor._ You've nothing to fear from me, dear heart."

"I don't…fear you," Christian replied, even as she yanked her hand away. "In fact," she backed up, "I respect you in most every way." Feeling the bed suddenly at the back of her knees, she muttered a curse. Great, now she was officially cornered.

The dark-skinned woman laughed again, though it didn't stop her advance. Christian's eyes widened as she began slowly unlacing the front of her dress. "You look to me that you need a bit of loosening up some," Omarra drawled. "Here," she pulled down the top half of her gown, revealing her light pink boned stays and matching chemise, "I don't mind if you touch."

Christian had run out of other ideas to stop the onslaught. Hopefully, stating the obvious would help.

"I NEED A BATH!" she immediately yelled.

Pausing in her ministrations at the outburst, Omarra quickly recovered and shrugged. "Oh, well why didn't you say so, love?" Thankfully, she didn't seem offended, flashing her a smile. Christian whispered a prayer for deliverance as Omarra continued "The bathhouse is downstairs, all the way in the back."

"Thank you," Christian muttered making for the door.

But Omarra was quicker, yanking her back by the hand. "I can join ya if you like, you handsome little thing," she mischievously smiled, beginning to pull off her dress again, "Though that'll cost you extra." Christian let out a huff of irritation. _Is there no way out of this? _Her mind raced.

Suddenly, and idea dawned on her. It would be expensive, but worth it for her secret not to be found out. Reaching into her coat pocket for the coin Henry gave her, she counted some out. As shameful as she felt for asking, it had to be done.

"How much?"

"How long?" Omarra replied without hesitation, leaning against the wall, "And do you wanna include the bath?"

"No," Christian speedily retorted, "Just for the night?" she asked. She was due back to the _Dauntless_the next afternoon anyway.

"Two guineas and a crown," the other woman brokered.

"I'll give you an extra crown for leaving me to the room alone," Christian retorted. She hoped her voice sounded assured. While she knew she was getting ripped off, she had little other choice.

Arching a brow, Omarra fixed her with a look of consternation. "You really don't want me do ya?" she snorted, lip curling.

"Please don't take offense," Christian swiftly replied, voice dropping. "I…" She searched for something to put any doubts at rest. "Well, I…I can't do anything with…_that_," she gestured at her crotch. "I was born…malformed," she whispered in supposed embarrassment. Glancing down to Christian's hand, Omarra looked up again to shoot her an expression of doubt. "I have to keep it from the others on the ship, or else I'd never hear the end of it," she continued, playing up her supposed shortcoming.

"You'd got be fecking joking-!"

"Lady Omarra," Christian swept off her tricorne and nearly went to one knee in a deep bow. It was ridiculous, but she hoped that last bit of flattery would sell her case. "You are truly a star among the heavens, and any man would be privileged to have you within his bed, _mademoiselle._ But alas, I fear I cannot give you the satisfaction you so very deserve," she frowned. "I am afraid your beauty would be wasted on my talent-less efforts."

Still bowed, Christian heard Omarra's footsteps approach. It was followed by a loud bark of laughter. But the hand upon her shoulder that pulled her back upwards was gentle. "You have the tongue of a poet rather than a sailor," Omarra chuckled. "Such words are rarely gifted to my sorts, sir." As Christian straightened, the other woman dropped her hands to her shoulders, straightening out the lines of her overcoat. "I appreciate your offer, lad, and I shall take it" she smirked, snatching the money out of Christian's hand, "But it's a goddamned shame that your nether regions are so ruined; you would've made a fine husband one day with those verses of yours."

Without further ado, she yanked her to her by the collar and pressed her mouth to Christian's. It proved a surprisingly thorough kiss. Christian's shock allowing her to deepen it, Omarra let her tongue lazily explore the other woman's mouth as her hands slid down to rest along her chest. Heat unexpectedly tingling along her skin, Christian let out an involuntary moan. Gracing her with a low chuckle in reply and giving her mouth a light nip with her teeth, Omarra finally withdrew, leaving the other woman reeling.

"Well…then," Christian whispered, hardly able to get it out. Opening her eyes wide in shock, she stumbled forward a bit. She certainly hadn't expected _that _reaction.

Omarra let out another laugh, nimbly lacing up her bodice. "You be a strange one, boy," she drawled, giving her a satisfied grin, like a cat to the cream, "But I know a good deal when I see it." Tossing a coin into the air, she deftly caught it. "These quarters is yours until sunrise. I shan't bother you further, I swear it." With that, she flounced out of the room. Though not before sliding the key to it from between her breasts and leaving it on the desk.

Slumping back against the door, Christian let out a loud sigh of relief. Disaster averted. Now, to get down to the bath.

* * *

Glad to be clean again, Christian spent the night in the room without incident. It was like heaven on earth to be sleeping in a bed with a real mattress and real pillows again. It certainly beat a worn-out cot in cramped quarters. Admittedly, she missed how the rocking of the ship helped lull her to sleep. But she had a satisfying rest, none the less.

The next morning, she awoke before sunrise. Knowing that they would be at sea for at least the next month, she decided to bathe again. It was a mistake that would come haunt her.

Not hearing anyone else about, Christian took her time in the bathhouse. As each stall was protected by tall wooden boards on each side and a thin door in front, privacy wasn't an issue. Dozing, she let her anxiety slip away. Which was why it was too late by the time she heard the door swing open, the foreign footsteps echoing on the creaking floorboards. Half-asleep in the bathtub and adrift in the steaming, spicy aroma of sandalwood, she'd slid down so that her chin was at water level. Eyes closed and mind elsewhere, she was lost to the world. And completely exposed.

Henry all but screamed at the sight of her.

Eyes snapping open at the sound of shocked horror, she literally screamed in reply.

Springing to her feet in terrified panic, she slipped on the slick bottom of the metal tub. Sliding haphazardly to left, she almost knocked the tub right over. However, the bathing area was minuscule, so she instead went careening into the wall. Regaining her balance and letting out a string of curses as she rubbed her bruised shoulder that'd taken most of the impact, she froze. For not even the mass of bubbles clinging to her skin were enough to hide the evidence of her true sex. As slim as she was, her small breasts were still apparently rather hard to hide when not bound down and covered with several layers of clothes. Neither was the slight curve of her hips. When viewed together, despite her short hair, it was unmistakable.

"BLOODY HELL ON THE HORIZON…DEAR _LORD!_" Henry bellowed, face ashen and twisted with shock. "G-g-good God _almighty!_" he hissed, quickly averting his eyes and turning around, "You're…a _WOMAN?!_"

"I-I…oh, heaven and _earth-!"_

"Put a towel on, boy…_GIRL?!_" he strangled, waving around frantically, his back to still to her. Speedily doing as she was told, Christian came to stand stock still. Henry refused to turn around, hands still waving in the air. Suddenly, he went still. "H-how long?!" he growled, back still to her, "How long have you been-"

"A woman?" she stammered, "Well, ehrm…all of my life, I should think."

"_Obviously_," he scathingly retorted, "Unless you are a witch of some sort, I'd assume such, you bloody wench!" She flinched at his last words, though she certainly understood his livid dismay. "Did you…you…how could you POSSIBLY?!...did you _really_ think you could continue hiding…that..._it?!_" She didn't answer, causing him to finally turn around. However, his eyes remained firmly locked with hers and he avoided looking anywhere below her chin. "By all that is holy!" he sputtered, "Y-you did, _didn't you?!_" Giving a silent nod, she flinched again as he let out a string of curses, beginning to pace back forth.

"Sir," she whispered, breaking the suffocating silence, "_Henry_…I-"

"I assume," he swallowed, avoiding her gaze, "That 'Christian' is not your real name?"

"Um…no."

"I think that may be first truthful you've said this entire time!" he bellowed.

"Ahem…not quite."

"How in God's name can you be so bloody cavalier about…about…THIS?!" Henry snapped, hazel eyes blazing with ire as he faced her again. His face red, the veins in his neck bulged. For a swift second, she was worried he'd have a stroke right there on the spot. "You know what sort of danger you're in, boy…lass?! What the hell am I supposed to do now?! How the hell can you go back aboard the _Dauntless?!_ Why are you so bloody _calm _about this…this…_INSANITY?!_" he frantically waved his arms about.

It was then that she realized he was half dressed, in nothing but his braises and with a fresh towel thrown over his shoulder. As if this situation could get any worse. She blanched at the sight of his pale skin over lean muscle. Light brown hair sprinkled across his chest, it trailed down his stomach. It was bizarre, as though looking at one's brother half-naked for the first time. Remaining silent in an effort to control her embarrassment, her eyes went wide as he continued to raise various questions. What was her real name? Where the hell was she really from? How in the bloody hell did she expect to keep up this charade on a ship full of men? Had she lost her goddamned mind?!

Her continuing muteness just set him off again. This time, it was cold, harsh rage that seemed to reverberate in the air about them. Nodding in disgust and running his shaking hands along his pants, he stuttered, "I-I…just put some damn clothes on…_NOW."_ With that, Henry spun his heel and exited the bath.

Struggling to stay her hands from their own shaking, Christian did as ordered, quickly drying off and dressing. Not bothering to run a quick brush through her hair (as she'd paid Omarra another fee to cut it last night, so it was short and barely grazed her neck and ears now. No matter that the illusion of masculinity was thoroughly shattered now), she quickly sped out of the bath house.

Trudging upstairs and finding Henry sitting on her bed in her quarters, she stammered, only to be cut off as he held up a hand up a hand of warning. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling created by damp clothes against her wet skin, the heavy humidity in the air left her nearly soaked again. Taking a tentative seat on the chair in the corner of the room, she cast her eyes downwards as he rose from the bed. Sneering, he walked back and forth in front of her before letting out a deep breath. She tensed, inwardly preparing for the tirade. It didn't help when he finally came to a standstill, mere inches from where she sat.

"I refuse to believe that…you _deceived _me!" Henry bellowed.

Flinching, she remained seated. "If you really think about it-"

"WHAT?!"

"Ehrm-"

"For bloody god's sake, stop staying that!" he ordered, pointing an accusing finger at her.

"Well," she shivered, "I said, if you really think about," she nervously breathed, "You really don't _know _me."

"YOU DON'T SAY?!"

Smothering silence settled between them again. Without warning, Henry dropped onto the bed and held his head in his hands. Christian remained in her seat, stock still and afraid to make a single sound. The ache that'd been slowly forming in her stomach ever since the horrible discovery threatened to cause her throw up. Her throat dry, a crushing headache made it feel as though her head was being squeezed between two boulders.

"This is how it is going to be." Henry's voice snapped her out her walking nightmare, images of her left abandoned and trapped on this island pushed to the back of her mind. At least for now. "One," Henry whispered, "You will not tell _anyone _of…this," he briefly waved his hand around her. "Not any of the officers, the cabin boys, not anyone. And especially not James! Understand?"

Christian silently nodded.

"Two. When we reach our next destination, I will put you off the ship-"

"But I-" she strangled.

"_I will put you off the ship_," he flatly repeated, "Then, I will pay you enough to board another ship back to England."

"Why would you-"

"No matter what you have done," he grit his teeth, "I will not have your death or disappearance on my conscience. So I will do what I may so that you are able to return to England. Where you bloody belong!"

Dropping his hands, his fists balled into the sheets and he still refused to look at her. She didn't bother to wipe away the hot tears beginning to spill down her face. Her vision blurring, she tried to stop her shoulders from heaving, to no avail. Ears buzzing with the sound of her own roaring heartbeat, she barely heard him continue.

"Three," he slowly began, "I want nothing to do with whatever devilry you're cooking up. I am done with you, Christian, _or __whatever your name is_."

"You cannot possibly-!" she shrieked, jumping from her seat only to be shoved back down into by Henry's sharp grip on her shoulders. She was astounded at how swiftly he moved from the bed.

"YOU HAVE NO ROOM FOR BROKERING _A THING!"_ Henry shouted, breath hot upon her face. "You are lying, _deceitful_ woman! And not only endangered your own life, but you have also broken the rules and questioned legitimacy of his majesty's royal navy with your actions! How dare you ask me _anything_ else of me!"

"How _dare_ I?!" she howled, leaping to her feet again, fast enough to shove past him this time. "What, you think I purposely wish to get myself killed by hiding myself as a man? Aboard a boat?! _IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN WITH NO ESCAPE, SHOULD I BE DISCOVERED?! _You think I have a _choice __in all of this?!"_

"Yes!"

"What?!" she spun on her heel, face twisted with fury "What else am I supposed to do keep my bloody birthright, Henry?! Because it's been six months," she waved a frustrated hand. "I've been at this for _six god-damned months!_ And I have gotten this far. Nothing has to change, don't you see?!" she pleaded, grabbing him by the wrist. "I swear on my life that you are the only one who knows of this-"

"I cannot condone _any _of it!" he insisted.

"All I am asking is that you say nothing!

"I cannot lie to my friends!" he angrily spat, yanking out of her grasp, "Least of all, to James!"

"Your silence results in none of that!" She hated the whining sound of her voice. Of how it reeked of desperation. How obvious it was that she was backed into a proverbial corner. "The ship was supposed to sail to the colonies, to the coast of North America!" her words spilled into one another as she vainly tried to explain everything further. "I wasn't supposed to be on board for more than a few weeks, at most. My travels were _never_ supposed to take me this far, Henry!"

"Well then, you are in luck, woman!" he sneered, shoving past her, marching to the door and flinging it open, "For this is where your precious journey with _me_ ends, _Miss _Granner." With that, he slammed the door behind himself, leaving her utterly alone.

Her goose was cooked. And it tasted _ever_ so bitter.

* * *

She was down to two options. She could either abandon ship and start fresh, trying to smuggle herself on board another one headed in the right direction. Or, she could continue with her bird in the hand, on the _Dauntless._It at least allowed her a fixed way to make it to a more civilized port. Henry was a lot of things, but she doubted he would abandon her. Especially when he made a promise, no matter their heated row.

So Christian found herself boarding the _Dauntless _later that afternoon.

Surprisingly, while she was paranoid that everyone else would suddenly take notice of a woman in their midst, she and Henry embarked without incident. Well, Henry didn't say one word to her the entire time. Not after they retreated back to their quarters. Not when they cast off. And not for the next few days. Finding herself in tears more often than not, the second night after the left port, she snatched up her blanket and pillow and went to go sleep in the infirmary.

She despised herself for her show of weakness.

"And what are you doing down here?" Norrington ordered one morning, gaze narrowed as Christian started from her position on the moldy cot in the infirmary. Quickly rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she jumped to her feet. It was the third night she'd down in there.

"What time is it, sir?"

"About half past the 8th hour," he sniffed, "_In the morning__,_ mind you."

"Great," she sarcastically yawned. As it was deep within in the bowels of the ship, she had no sunlight from a port window or the sound of the bells upon the deck to wake her. And now, she was running late. "I stayed up last night…organizing," she steadily continued, thankful she'd become so accustomed to lying over the last few months. Glancing around, she was glad to see the shelves as organized as ever, for once.

"As you did the three nights before that?" he doubtfully retorted, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms. "You've been sleeping down here nearly since we left Cape Verde, Mr. Granner."

She only shook her head in adamant reply, remaining silent and holding her hands behind her back. Gaze sharp and pitiless, she almost dared him to question her. Taking an almost questioning step back, he muttered, "I see," though he didn't look convinced in the slightest. Rocking back on his heels and staring at her down his nose, he held her gaze a bit longer before she looked away and began worrying her lip. He gave a wave of dismissal as she turned back to the shelves.

"Willow bark?" she declared, breaking the silence as she speedily pulled out a labeled jar full of the stuff from the shelf just above her head, "You look as though you need it-"

"Come again?" he sharply retorted, causing her expression to fly back to impassive.

"Sea sickness," she replied with a shrug, taking the empty teacup from his hand. "You're sweating and look positively green. Not to mention your teacup. Obviously need something to brew to settle your discomfort" she continued, almost to herself.

_It's no lie_, he mused. However, his symptoms were the result of yet another hangover. _But it's not as though the boy needs to know that._

"I assume you need something for your stomach?" she waved, turning her back to him and already beginning to grind bit of the bark on the mortar stone. Sprinkling it into his cup, she added a sliver of intact bark. "Brew this as you would tea. You may want to add a bit of lemon or lime for taste," she began, the instructions flowing from her without trouble. After all, she'd been doling out drugs and remedies like this for the better part of three months. "When you're done with the tea, just chew on the bark until it looses all flavor. You should feel the effects within the half hour. See me around mid-day if you need more."

"Well then," he replied, taking the cup from her and heading up the stairs, "I should get on."

"Aye, sir," she almost yawned, glancing down at her makeshift bed. The cot certainly wasn't as comfortable as her own in Henry's quarters. But it wasn't as though she could to show her face around there any time soon.

Without turning around and continuing up the steps, Norrington suddenly said, "I suggest you work out whatever's gone wrong with Doctor McCarnelly. Sleeping down here certainly won't do you any good." With that, he was gone.

Frowning and gritting her teeth in frustration, Christian fell back onto the cot. While she knew she should be up an about, she allowed herself to descend into a fitful sleep. As she drifted off, she made a silent oath to never show her face upstairs in her quarters. If the doctor needed her, he knew where to find her.

Damn him to hell.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, it's been a long, _long_ time since I've updated. Mostly because I bought a new computer and stumbled across this story when I was transferring files from my old now. Admittedly, other fandoms have distracted me, but Norrington is my first love. So hopefully, I'll be committed to finishing this. Thanks to anyone who's still stuck around after four years!

**Cape Verde** – was colonized by the Portuguese, who imported slaves from the West Africa to develop the island. Since the island was a main stop on trade routes between Africa, Europe, and the New World, it became extremely prosperous. As a result Cape Verde, especially its capital of Ribeira Grande, was routinely sacked by pirates and warring European countries. After the French attacked Ribeira Grande in 1712 (five years before Norrington lands in this fic), the city declined as Praia rose. Praia eventually became the capital in 1770.

**_Piccolo_** – Italian for "Sweetheart"


End file.
